The Treasure of Captain Cannonsmoke
by Delibird
Summary: Crooks on a cruise ship! 10 of the most infamous classic Dick Tracy villains find themselves united on a mysterious treasure hunt. Based on the comic strip created by Chester Gould and the UPA cartoon show from the 60's.
1. Mysterious Envelopes

Disclaimers:

Dick Tracy and nearly all of the characters named within this fanfic were created by Chester Gould, and are copyrighted by the Chicago Tribune Syndicate/Tribune Media Services. Other characters appearing in this story are from the animated Adventures of Dick Tracy television show, and are copyrighted by Classic Media and the UPA cartoon studio that created them.

As is usually the case with fan fiction, the author (that's me) is not affiliated with any of the above. I do not own anything referenced here. This fanfic is a labor of love, and as everyone knows, labors of love never make any money… but they sure can be fun to write! (And hopefully fun to read as well.)

And now – on with the show!

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CHAPTER 1: Mysterious Envelopes

_There is a world, one not too far removed from our own, where certain types of human beings have faces that seem to reflect their very souls. A world where one can indeed judge a book by its cover and not be wrong, with few exceptions. Let us examine several volumes of these unsightly, shoddy-jacketed "books," shall we?_

Dawn was breaking hesitantly over the nameless city, as though the sun itself was ashamed to show its face upon it after the events of the previous night. Not that any of the past night's activities had been unusual for this crime-ridden community...

In a "borrowed" room at the Peach Teaks hotel (known unaffectionately to its tenants as "Cockroach Towers"), two criminals were sleeping off a hard night's work of burglary and other generally lawless behavior. One of them was bald, scarred of face and reeked of cheap cigars. Without a doubt, his most disturbing features were his eyes. Black, beady and close-set, they had a tendency to roll in his head whenever he got too excited. Currently however, they were lidded and still, while their owner slept the restless sleep of the wicked.

Lying in a separate bed, the other felon's appearance was even more grotesque. His face was like something out of an old circus sideshow. Nature, perhaps displaying a streak of cruel humor, had given him a malformed skull; one that was wider than it was tall, and flat as a table on top. As if this was not enough, he also had an ugly little mouth; tiny, fishlike lips pursed in a perpetual pout, even while he lay sleeping. His cheeks were dusted with freckles that might have looked appealing on anyone else, but here they only served as the bitter decorations on a very unappetizing-looking cake.

Both men had automatic revolvers lying within easy reach on their respective nightstands. Beneath their beds was stashed the loot of the previous night's job – an assortment of jewelry and cash, liberated from the display cases and cash register of Roxy's Gemstone Emporium. The caper had gone well. But now the heat was on, and the two of them intended to lay low in this fleapit of a hotel until it blew over. Or so the evil pair had planned.

But the best-laid plans of mice and mobsters often go awry…

There was a sound of something being slid under the door. It might have been the morning paper being delivered, except that the Peach Teaks did not offer complimentary newspapers to its patrons. Two sharp raps on the door shattered the silence of the dawn like gunfire.

Instantly, both crooks were awake. Snatching up their guns, they flung aside the threadbare blankets and sheets (revealing that they both had slept in their "work" clothes) and sprang to their feet, rods at the ready. Outside, the sound of footsteps receded hastily into the distance.

Wary of a trap, the flat-headed one approached the door, his sleep-wrinkled topcoat and rumpled bow tie adding to his bizarre appearance. With his finger tense at the trigger of his automatic, he stood to one side of the door and eased it open. His partner, who had experienced an agonizing head-rush from getting out of bed so quickly, stood where he was, clutching at his temples while his eyes rolled crazily.

There was nobody outside, of course. But there at the gangster's feet lay an envelope with a slight bulge at one end. Written on the envelope in an unfamiliar script were the words:

TO FLATTOP AND B-B EYES.

* * *

Meanwhile, near the edge of town, a similar scene was taking place.

Someone had slipped another mysterious envelope under the front door of a condemned, decrepit old mansion believed by many to be haunted. However, the "ghouls" that inhabited this mansion were decidedly flesh and blood – corrupted flesh and bad blood, to be sure, but mortal all the same. The unseen messenger rang the doorbell, which tolled like a knell of doom. But by the time one of the mansion's occupants answered the door, said messenger was long gone.

A withered hand the color of a faded plum picked up the envelope that lay on the doormat. Eyes that were almost lost within a mass of creases and wrinkles scrutinized the envelope. Like the one left at the Peach Teaks hotel, it had a round, flat bulge in one end, resembling a miniature hockey puck – or a thick coin. Unlike the other one, it bore the legend (in the same unknown handwriting): TO PRUNEFACE AND ITCHY.

"Hey, Pruneface – what's up?" a sharp, prickly voice that sounded like it was attempting to stifle a yawn asked. "Who would be coming here so early in the morning, anyway? Can't be the cops – they wouldn't bother to ring the bell…'

"Quiet, Itchy." The ghastly-looking man known as Pruneface glanced outside, but saw no one. With the envelope clutched in one hand, he slowly relaxed and lowered the other – the one that was holding a .45 Colt pistol. He was wearing a fancy, burgundy-colored bathrobe, which had been hastily thrown on the instant he had heard the doorbell ring.

Behind him, his associate shuffled into the foyer, scratching his head with his right hand and his armpit with his left. Unlike Flattop and B-B Eyes, he had not slept in his usual attire and was currently wearing nothing but his boxers and an undershirt. He did have on his glasses, though – a pair of black horn-rims with a sinister slant to them that somewhat offset the fact that he looked ridiculous standing there in his underclothes, scratching himself like a chimpanzee.

Itchy (whose actual name was Itchell Oliver) gazed curiously at the envelope. "Where did that come from? What's in it?"

"To answer your first question, I don't know," replied Pruneface in a voice that sounded a bit like monster movie-legend Boris Karloff. "And to answer the second, I'll soon see." Using a dagger-shaped letter opener, he slit the envelope open very carefully, cautious of a possible booby trap. Nothing threatening came out, at least not immediately. There appeared to be some paper or parchment inside, along with the disk-shaped object. It was the latter that Pruneface was the most suspicious of. Finally, however, he shook it out onto the floor, where it bounced and rolled around in a tight circle before rattling to a stop. Both villains stared at it.

It was, of all things, a golden Spanish doubloon.

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_Who is this mysterious envelope-pusher? Why is he (or could it be a she?) giving gold doubloons to these base villains? Stay tuned, the next chapter is on its way..._


	2. The Rogues' Gallery

CHAPTER 2: The Rogues' Gallery

"A golden doubloon? Is this a gag? Who would send _us_ a golden doubloon? And why?"

The preceding words were not spoken by Itchy or Pruneface, but were uttered by another man in another location. Just outside the city was a small, forested mountain range. Deep within the woods was a secluded cabin, the hideout of still another pair of thugs. Thugs who had thought their hideout was safe from all prying eyes and nosy cops, unknown to any save themselves.

Yet it seemed that someone had known they were there, for they had woken up to find the envelope that had been left under the door, addressed: TO THE BROW AND OODLES.

It was the Brow who had opened the envelope and discovered the gold doubloon inside. A huge bear of a man, his particular disfigurement was his forehead, which was a series of broad, fleshy bumps stacked on top of each other like thick flapjacks. Another unsettling characteristic was his ears – or rather, his lack of them; all he had were dents on either side of his head. Definitely not somebody one would want to meet in a dark alley at night. Or anywhere else at any other time of the day.

His partner in crime, though shorter than the Brow, looked like he weighed at least twice as much as he did. As the old joke goes, Oodles had more chins than a Chinese phone book. His blubbery body had a faint bluish tinge to the skin – no doubt due to poor circulation. He also had a great pompadour of dark hair that covered his eyes more often than not. This gave him a rather stupid, bumpkin-like expression that belied the fact that he was, as was the Brow, a dangerous criminal.

Like some massive sheepdog, Oodles peered through his hair at the doubloon that lay on the table where the Brow had deposited it. "Just _one_ coin?" he whined disappointedly. "How are we supposed to share it? Isn't there anything else in that envelope?"

In response, the Brow pulled out the remaining items. "No more coins," he replied, his rough voice reminiscent of the actor James Cagney. "Just something that looks like part of a map – and a note."

"What does the note say?"

"It says…" The Brow read the note silently before continuing, and as he did so, a new fold seemed to appear on his misshapen forehead as he stared dubiously at what he was reading. "It says, 'There's plenty more where this came from, and if you want to see the rest of the treasure, come to the Pier 23 graving dock at midnight tonight. And don't forget to bring the treasure map with you.'"

* * *

"'…and don't forget to bring the treasure map with you.'"

Almost at precisely the same moment the Brow was reading his note, somebody else was reading the exact same words from a note contained in yet another envelope. This one had been pushed under the door of Room 714 at the Hotel Opera. Unlike the Peach Teaks (which was located several blocks away in a poorer section of town), the Hotel Opera was what one might have called "a classy joint."

Room 714 was occupied by a couple of luxury-loving scoundrels who were also on the lam after a night of malicious mischief (and who had absolutely no intention of paying the enormous hotel bill they were generating). For a change, neither one of them looked like either a sideshow freak or a refugee from a horror movie. While not exactly handsome, the one reading the note had short, wavy black hair that was neatly combed, though it was starting to recede, and was usually covered by the brown fedora hat he wore. In his matching brown three-piece suit, diamond ring sparkling on his finger and cigarette held in a resin cigarette-holder, he looked every inch a dapper dude.

But there was something about him; a sort of glint in his half-lidded eyes, and the wide smirk on his face should have warned any wary individual that this was _not_ someone from whom you would want to buy a used car – or a wristwatch – or anything else! He definitely had "con artist" written all over him.

His crime buddy was, if anything, even more of a snappy dresser. Outfitted in a straw-colored sport coat (which matched his choppy blond hair) and blue bow tie (which matched his deceptively sad-looking eyes), he could have passed for a lounge singer. He possessed just one slight physical flaw, and it was that he had a crooked little mouth (which matched his crooked little mind).

"So whaddya think, Mumbles?" asked the one who had read the note.

"Sounzlika scamtme."

"Yeah, it sounds like a scam to me, too," agreed the first hood, whose name (or "pen-name," as he often quipped) was Stooge Viller. He had a markedly Brooklyn accent. "Some joker thinks that they can trick the guys who wrote the book on dirty tricks." Casually, he flipped the doubloon into the air, snatched it, put it between his teeth and bit down. His eyes widened as the coin refused to bend.

"Huh!" Removing the doubloon from his mouth, Stooge examined it more closely. "This ain't no foil-wrapped chocolate, and it's not a painted lead slug, neither. It's the real deal! That's pretty expensive for a practical joke." He read the note again. "Hmm ... 'plenty more where this came from…' I'd sure like to see plenty more of _these_ babies."

Mumbles likewise seemed to be thinking the same thing, as a gleam of avarice lit up his sleepy blue eyes. "Mebbewe shuchek tout."

"Oh, we'll check it out, all right," Stooge said with a grin. "Anybody who can toss around gold like this is worth checking out. But we won't go unprepared." His hand went to his jacket pocket, where he patted the reassuring shape of a .38 Special automatic revolver. With his other hand, he covered a yawn. "But first, let's get some shut-eye. We'll want to be wide-awake when we go to the docks tonight…"

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_What will happen at the docks? Will any MORE crooks get involved with this mysterious treasure hunt? And what about Dick Tracy himself? Stay tuned for the next chapter!_


	3. It's a Puzzle

CHAPTER 3: "It's a Puzzle"

Midnight came, and a crescent moon gleamed like the disembodied smile of a Cheshire cat over the city's waterfront. While the sun that morning had seemed reluctant to gaze upon the wickedness contained within the city, the moon seemed to be enjoying the joke. Nearly all of the worst rogues in town had stealthily arrived, in pairs, to the mysterious Pier 23 graving dock – only for each pair to discover that they were by no means the only ones summoned to this location.

"Alright, which one of you mugs is the wise guy?"

"I was just about to ask everyone that same question, B-B Eyes," said the Brow, glaring suspiciously at the derby-hatted gangster.

"Do you mean to say," Pruneface interjected, "that we _all_ received the same message this morning?"

"With the gold coin and the phony treasure map? See for yourself." Flattop held up the piece of parchment and the doubloon.

"How d'yuh know it's phony?" Oodles wanted to know.

Stooge Viller leaned forward to get a better view. "Hey, that map doesn't look the same as the one me an' Mumbles got. Check it out..." He placed the other one next to Flattop's for comparison. "See – the details are different."

Seconds later, all four maps were lying side by side on the boardwalk. Sure enough, each one was slightly different from the other, though they all seemed to depict the ocean and part of a tropical-looking island.

"Sapuzzl," said Mumbles.

"_What_ did he say?" Itchy asked, scratching his head compulsively.

"He said 'It's a puzzle,'" replied Stooge, who had the rare gift of being able to easily comprehend the less-than-coherent speech of his crime partner. "And he's right. Watch this…" He started to rearrange the maps, and suddenly it was clear that instead of four separate maps, there was really only one big map that had been torn in four pieces.

Except that there was a large hole in the center of the assembled maps that was roughly the same size and shape as one of the pieces.

"Nyahh, it's no good, see?" B-B Eyes pointed out. "There's a piece missing. We're just wasting our time here, see?" His voice and mannerisms were not unlike that of his favorite movie gangster, Edward G. Robinson. (Even villains have their "heroes.")

"I don't like this," muttered Pruneface. "Someone who obviously knows who we all are wanted to lure us here. But who could it be, and what could be their motive?"

They were all silent for a moment. Then Flattop, in his quiet Peter Lorre-inspired voice ventured, "You don't suppose it was Dick Tracy, do you?"

The other seven criminals winced at the sound of the hated name. Itchy began scratching even more frantically than before. Then the Brow spoke up: "Naw, it couldn't be Tracy – this ain't his style. You know that flatfoot. Always doing everything by the book. He wouldn't resort to some sort of entrapment scheme."

"Are yuh quite certain of that, Brow?" Oodles asked anxiously, raising his bangs with one hand and glancing about as though expecting at any second to see the dreaded yellow trenchcoat of their arch-enemy appear from the shadows of the night.

B-B Eyes shrugged. "Nyahh, I think it's a moot point. Last I heard of Dick Tracy, he was out of town. No doubt he has some bigger fish to fry, see? Probably after a foreign spy or terrorist or something."

Pruneface and the Brow exchanged glances, but didn't say anything. The two of them shared a secret: they were both Nazi spies in addition to being gangsters. Even though the war was long over, there was still money to be gained through the sale of military secrets (when they could obtain them). After all, there was always another war going on somewhere in the world…

At that moment, Stooge – who was standing on a patch of grass next to the boardwalk – exclaimed "Hey, what the–!" prior to leaping backward. The reason for this soon became apparent: the spot where he had just stood was trembling and heaving, until finally it erupted as a pair of hairy hands thrust upward through the ground. As these hands clawed the soil out of the way, a face appeared between them; very homely it was, with a huge, snout-like nose and dull little eyes. "We made it, Sketch!" the apparition yelled excitedly. "We've found the docks, at last!"

"Shut up, you idiot," hissed another voice that was muffled from being underground. "Do you want to alert ze _gendarmes?"_

"Ye gods!" groaned B-B Eyes, slapping his bald forehead. "Not the Mole, too!"

"And Sketch Paree, from the sound of it," Flattop noted. "Maybe they've got the last piece…"

"Huh?" The Mole, finally realizing that there were others present, peered around nearsightedly at everyone as his hunchbacked form emerged from the tunnel he had dug with his bare hands. "Flattop, is that you? Itchy? Mumbles? What're you guys all doin' here?"

"The same thing that you've no doubt come here for," answered the Brow, holding his portion of the map up before the Mole's face. "We're trying to figure out why each of us was sent a piece of this."

"Oh, yeah! We got one of those, too! Plus, a pretty coin…" The Mole continued his chatter as a second dirt-covered figure struggled to get out of the underground tunnel. Sketch Paree was a lean Frenchman with bony cheeks, a pencil-thin mustache and a long, narrow chin. Like Stooge, he used a cigarette-holder for his smoking vice, though his cigarettes of choice were imported from Paris, of course. There was also something decidedly vampirish about his black, slicked-back hair and powdered white face, below which he wore a large and disturbingly blood-red bow tie.

After the usual exchange of accusations ("Are _you_ the ones behind this?" "Is zis your idea of a joke, m'sieur?"), the assembled villains got down to business. The map fragment belonging to Sketch and the Mole was added to the puzzle, and sure enough, it completed it.

"Now what?" inquired Pruneface. "The map may be complete, but we still don't know whether it's phony or not. And even if it's genuine, how are we going to go after the treasure without a ship?"

"We could steal one," Oodles offered, trying to be helpful.

The Brow shook his lumpy head. "Too risky. As soon as it's reported stolen, the cops would track us down with radar and helicopters. Personally, I still think this is some sort of hoax. I say we all go home and forget the whole thing." Secretly, however, he was hoping the others would all go home and forget about it so that he and Oodles could try to find the treasure all by themselves.

"Let's look at that message again," Stooge suggested. Mumbles handed their copy to him and he read it out loud. "…if you want to see the rest of the treasure, come to the Pier 23 graving dock at midnight tonight." He glanced behind him at the long dockside building with the number 23 on it. "Well, we're in front of the right place, but maybe we're supposed to go inside of it."

"Good idea, Stooge," said B-B Eyes, smirking. "And since you're the one who thought of it, you go on in and check it out first, and if you don't get ambushed, we'll follow you, see?"

Stooge scowled. "Just for that, smart guy, you're checking it out with me – or else it ain't gonna be checked out at all!" As B-B Eyes hesitated, Stooge could not resist adding, "Unless you're too _yellow_ to take such a risk…"

That did it. "Nyah, nobody calls me yellow, see!" the gangster snapped, his eyes darting and rolling agitatedly back and forth as the others all snickered at him – even his own associate, Flattop. Fuming, he stormed over to the graving dock's door and wrenched at the doorknob, expecting to find it locked. Much to everyone's surprise, it flew open...

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_Who _–_ or what _–_ could possibly be inside the graving dock? And will this gang of thugs actually cooperate with one another, or will they end up stabbing each other in the back at the first opportunity? Time (and the upcoming chapters) will tell._


	4. The Launching of the Dutch Master

CHAPTER 4: The Launching of the _Dutch Master_

Ten motley faces crowded forward and tried to peer through the doorway at the same time, for now that the initial caution was past, each one wanted to be the first to see the treasure – if indeed there _was_ treasure inside. However, they were disappointed; the graving dock was empty save for the hulking shape of a cruise ship that had been moored within. Pruneface brought out a pocket flashlight and shone it on the prow of the ship, revealing its name: the _Dutch Master.  
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"Gee, wouldn't it be swell to go on a treasure hunt in _this_ thing!" Oodles said wistfully.

"A multi-millionaire's yacht, from the looks of it," Stooge concurred. "Seems almost a crime _not_ to hijack it." He nodded at his accomplice, who mumbled a few words of agreement.

"Hey, look!" Itchy pointed at the anchor, which was resting on the edge of the dock. "There's something attached to the anchor." Indeed, there was a rolled-up scroll tied to it, which Itchy removed and held in one hand as he silently read it, scratching his neck with his other hand.

"Stop that confounded scratching and tell us what it says!" Pruneface demanded, as his patience was growing as wrinkled as his skin.

Itchy shifted the scratching from his neck to his elbow, but he did not stop doing it. "It says: 'Congratulations, you've made it this far without chickening out. Now that you've got the completed map, use it and this ship to find the treasure. Don't worry, it's my ship, so it won't be reported as stolen, and it practically steers itself. All you have to do is enter the coordinates included on the back of the map into the ship's navigational computer, and it will take you to where the treasure is buried. You'll have to provide your own tools and supplies, so make sure you load the ship with plenty of food, water, shovels, etc. before you launch. Good luck and happy treasure hunting!' Signed, Captain Cannonsmoke."

For a moment, the ten criminals just looked at each other, not certain what to make of this.

"Something's fishy here," murmured the Brow. "Who the blazes is this Captain Cannonsmoke? And why does he want us to find his treasure? What's he got to gain from all this?"

Flattop shrugged. "Who cares? Maybe he's some eccentric billionaire who does this sort of thing for kicks. Maybe he's just a rich lunatic. I say we take advantage of him. Even if the treasure doesn't exist, the ship alone is worth a fortune – we could always sell it to some sucker in another port before he realizes that we've stolen it. And I don't know about the rest of you, but this ship looks like a perfect hideaway; if Dick Tracy comes back from wherever he is, he'll never find us out on the open sea!"

This sounded like a plan to the other nine ruffians, and right away they began to determine who would bring what to the ship. After much debating, it was finally decided that the Mole and Sketch Paree would get the shovels and picks ("I don't need a shovel," the Mole boasted, "but I guess the rest of you do."); Stooge and Mumbles would bring explosives, in case the ground turned out to be too hard for digging; the Brow and Oodles were in charge of the groceries; Pruneface and Itchy would provide drinking water and other necessities, while Flattop and B-B Eyes intended to be the ones who brought along the party supplies.

One thing was for certain, those villains planned on having a good time during their treasure hunt, regardless of whether they actually found a treasure or not...

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The crescent moon continued to grin knowingly down at the city as the gangsters separated to perform their various "duties" in preparation for their trip by sea. Sketch Paree and the Mole broke into a closed hardware store and stole over a dozen digging tools and implements – far more than they would need, but they decided to make it a worthwhile snatch, since the surplus could always be sold for cash on the black market.

Stooge Viller and Mumbles raided the supply shack of a local construction company, making off with a keg of gunpowder and several sticks of dynamite. Although there was a night watchman present, he had been sleepy and inattentive when Stooge snuck up behind him with a pipe wrench raised over his head. By the time the two rascals left with their stolen goods, the unfortunate watchman was sleeping quite soundly, and would wake up the next morning with a lump on his noggin the size of a goose-egg.

Little Toni's 24-hour delicatessen was the target of the Brow and Oodles. They parked their unmarked van outside the deli, went in and tied up the poor proprietor at gunpoint, then proceeded to load almost the entire store's stock into their van. Loaves of bread and piles of lunch meat and cheeses of every description were taken, along with just about everything else that was edible and wasn't nailed down. The Brow finally had to tell Oodles to knock it off and leave what little was left; they already had enough food to feed a small army for a week.

Not surprisingly, Flattop and B-B Eyes held up a liquor store in their search for party supplies. They too had a van (a stolen one, naturally) which they used to haul away their ill-gotten gains – six-packs of beer, bottles of Scotch and bourbon, boxes of cigars and cigarettes, and so forth. Flattop also grabbed several packaged decks of playing cards that were stacked next to the cash register (which they emptied, of course).

In similar fashion, Pruneface and Itchy visited a "Thrifty Drugs" store and obtained the bottled water and sundry goods that the ten of them would need during their voyage (yes, even a villain has to shave and brush his teeth). As they were making their getaway, Itchy couldn't resist the opportunity to crack wise: "That place ought to change its name to the 'Shifty Thugs' store!"

The local police were in fits; no sooner did they arrive too late at the scene of one crime when a call would come in about another crime being committed at the opposite end of town. The villains had timed their various heists well.

And Dick Tracy was not around to halt this wave of criminal activity.

Finally, in the last hour of darkness before the dawn, a bottle of champagne was smashed across the prow of the _Dutch Master_ as she glided out of the Pier 23 graving dock like a thief in the night.

* * *

Next Chapter: Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of beer, it's party time on the high seas with this gang of urban pirates! But there's also the first sign of troubled waters ahead...


	5. Mad Mobster Party

PART FIVE: Mad Mobster Party

The villains' first day on the open sea passed uneventfully enough, with all ten of them resting up in their respective cabins after the previous night's activities. Each cabin conveniently contained two beds, one on either side of the room, which allowed for the usual team-ups. They slept and snored until well into the afternoon before venturing from their cabins to really explore the ship for the first time. A few of them suffered from what Sketch Paree called _mal de mer_, but this did not last long, as Pruneface had been resourceful enough to pocket several bottles of seasick pills when he and Itchy had robbed the convenience store.

The fragmented treasure map had been Scotch-taped back together and rolled into a tube. It was decided that each day the map would be entrusted to a different thug, and whomever held on to the map would be considered the ship's Captain for that day. This was not mere whimsy; it also made certain that none of them would try anything sneaky with the map. If any funny business was discovered, the Captain who was responsible would find himself facing a mutinous crew of nine angry shipmates, and would likely end up being tossed overboard. Or just plain shot.

They drew lots, and B-B Eyes got the longest one, which made him the first Captain. "Nyahh, I'm the Captain, see?" he crowed as he tucked the map into his pocket. "That means that what I say, goes. And I say, tonight we have us a little party and celebrate our successful start, see?"

Though they resented his superior attitude, the others had to agree that a party sounded like a good idea. The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing for the event. The ship had a sizeable dining room (or galley, as such is called on board a ship) complete with multiple tables and a bar; the perfect place for a party. Platters of cold-cuts were assembled from the supply of stolen food. Dozens of containers of beer were set in buckets of ice from the ship's freezer. One long table in the galley was covered with bottles of the harder liquors. Each of the smaller tables now sported a deck of cards and stacks of poker chips, along with a box of cigars and some packs of cigarettes.

Stooge Viller looked over the spread admiringly. "Wow … sandwiches … booze … cards … cigars …" He peeked behind the ship's bar and asked, half-jokingly, "Got any dancing girls hidden back there?"

"We would have brought some, but there was no time to kidnap any last night," Flattop answered with a leer on his repulsive face, while Mumbles chuckled at the thought.

As dusk lowered a discreet black velvet curtain over the sea, the party aboard the _Dutch Master_ got underway. The pop and fizz of opening beer bottles filled the air, as did the mingled smoke of several types of cancer sticks. Oodles devoured most of the sandwiches. Cards were shuffled and dealt; straights and flushes and full houses were laid upon the tables and poker chips changed owners. Whiskey sloshed into glasses as the assembled rogues ate, drank and made merry.

Or at least, nine of them were drinking and making merry. Sketch Paree was in a foul mood, and the reason for this was because he suddenly realized that he was the only one at the party who would remain sober. It wasn't because he himself was a teetotaler – far from it! But he was an _artiste_, a Frenchman who, for all his villainy, considered himself to be a gentleman of some refinement. "What kind of party do you call zis?" he finally burst out, waving disgustedly at the beer and the liquor table. "Why is zere no wine? No champagne?"

"There was one champagne bottle," Flattop recalled. "Wonder what happened to it?"

"That must have been the one we smashed over the prow of the ship," sniggered the Brow. "For good luck."

"_Mon dieu!_ What a terrible waste!" Paree held his forehead.

"Aw, cheer up, Sketch." The Mole, his little eyes brighter than usual from the liquor, tried to console his associate. "Have some of this bourbon – it's really good!" he recommended before draining the contents of his glass.

"Bah! Bourbon, indeed. Filthy American pig-swill! And zat muck you call beer, it is even worse. I would die before allowing such filth to pass my lips!"

"More for us, then," said Stooge, grinning as he popped the cap from another bottle.

While Paree continued to fume, the poker games gradually broke up into conversations between the other villains, as it was becoming increasingly difficult for them to concentrate on a winning hand. Shop talk, crude jokes and drunken laughter rode atop the alcohol waves.

"…Yeah, I almost had Dick Tracy that time … (hic) … if it hadn't of been for that meddling brat, Junior…"

"I remember my first stick-up, when I was 12 years old. It was a See's Candy shop. When I saw the store sign, I decided to go inside and 'seize' the candy!"

"You're a card, Oodles."

"Hey, what d'ya call a detective that's been run over by a steamroller? A flat flatfoot! Har-har-har!"

"…I'm not kidding. I used to be known at the King of Pickpockets. And I still am, too!" It was Stooge Viller who was boasting to Flattop and B-B Eyes. "Check your wallets, both of you."

They did so. "What are you talking about, Viller?" asked Flattop. "My wallet's right here…"

"And so's mine. Nyahh, some 'King' you are!" B-B Eyes sneered.

"Check again…" advised Stooge, the smirk never leaving his face.

"Hey, what in–?" Flattop uttered upon closer inspection. "This isn't my wallet – it's yours, B-B Eyes!"

"And I've got yours." The black, beady eyes glared at Stooge with grudging respect. "Pretty slick trick, Viller. But I'll bet you couldn't have pulled it off if we weren't half-drunk, see?"

"I ain't exactly cone sold stober meself," Stooge reminded them as the other two exchanged wallets. "But that little trick is nothing. I can pick a pocket in my sleep. Why, one time I filched a pocketknife from the Chief of Police, while my hands were in cuffs! Haw-haw!"

"Ahh, you're as full of beans as you are of beer," scoffed the Brow, who had overheard the conversation. "Nobody could be _that_ good at pick-pocketing."

But in fact, it _was_ the truth. However, Stooge did not tell the entire story – about how he had attempted to use the filched pocketknife to cut his own throat, because he had been so terrified of facing the wrath of Dick Tracy once the flatfoot found out that Stooge had shot and injured his girlfriend. The arresting cops had stopped his act of cowardice in time, though he still bore a scar on the side of his neck as a reminder of that dreadful day. Stooge took another swallow of beer, temporarily flushing the bad memory from his mind.

* * *

_The liquor continues to flow in the next installment, and a _seemingly_ minor incident occurs ... one that may change the entire course of the adventure!_


	6. What Shall We Do With a Drunken Gangster

PART SIX: What Shall We Do With a Drunken Gangster?

"Hey, look what I found." Oodles, in his quest for more sandwiches, had gone searching behind the bar, and now his pudgy hand was clutching the neck of a wooden guitar that had been stashed there. "A six-string. Music, that's what this party needs – besides more food, that is."

Flattop yawned. "Nice. Too bad none of us can play it."

"_I_ know someone who can play it," said Stooge, smiling even more broadly than before. He turned towards his partner in crime, who was currently watching Itchy perform a card trick (not very well, as the latter kept shaking cards out of his sleeve every time he scratched himself). "Hey, Mumbles! You used to be a musician, din'tcha? How 'bout playing us a tune on that cigar box?"

Surprised at unexpectedly finding himself the center of attention, Mumbles's first inclination was to decline; he smiled shyly and shook his head. "Nahh, smuddertime," he slurred, his pale complexion having gone pink from the alcohol he had imbibed.

"Aww, now ain't that cute?" chuckled the Brow. "He's bashful. Lookit 'im blush!"

"Why some other time, Mumbles?" Stooge pressed. "Why not now? No time like the present, after all."

"C'mon, Mumbles – give us some music!" Now all the rest of the villains (except for Sketch Paree, who was still sulking) began to clamor for a song, until finally the blond hood gave in and accepted the guitar from Oodles. With a lopsided, embarrassed grin on his face, Mumbles checked the instrument to see if it was in tune.

Now, Mumbles couldn't really sing, of course. But he did know how to play the guitar, even buzzed like he was. He strummed a few chords of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," wordlessly humming the tune as an accompaniment. When that didn't get much of a reaction, he began to play Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock."

"Not _that_ song," protested Itchy as he dug at his scalp. "I don't want to be reminded of jailhouses – I just broke out of one the day before yesterday!"

Muttering something under his breath that even Stooge couldn't comprehend, Mumbles switched to the familiar guitar riff from the Animals' "House of the Rising Sun." This piece was a personal favorite of his – and he could actually play it quite well – but his talent was wasted on this lot, whose musical tastes left something to be desired.

"Hey, why not play somethin' we all know? Somethin' we can sing along to?" suggested Oodles.

"I move we hear something appropriate," said Pruneface. "A sailing song, perhaps, like 'Yo-Ho, Blow the Man Down.'"

"Yeah, we're pirates now, ain't we?" the Mole piped up. Holding a beer bottle cap over one eye like an eye-patch, he grimaced, "Arrr, mateys!"

They all laughed at this, and Mumbles, suddenly inspired, began to plunk a jaunty tune that was immediately recognized by all...

"Oh, yeah! That's more like it," Flattop exclaimed. "That's that pirate song from Disneyland, isn't it?"

Indeed it was, and soon the inebriated criminals were singing lustily:

_"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me!"  
_  
"Hey, look – it's the return of the Mumbles Quartette!" Stooge pointed out. Sure enough, Oodles, Itchy and the Mole had all gathered around Mumbles and were singing (if you could call it that) like some deranged pirate trio while Mumbles hummed and strummed. "Whatever happened to the original members of the Quartette anyway, Mumbles? Besides you, I mean? What're they doin' now?"

His partner shrugged. "Idunno, prollybou tentatwennyrs," he replied as he continued to play.

"_What_ did he say?" asked B-B Eyes.

"S'matter, can't you understand English? He said they're probably doin' about ten to twenty years," answered Stooge, as the Mumbles Pirate Quartette continued to sing:

_"We extort, we pilfer, we filch and sack, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! Maraud and embezzle and even hijack, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me!"  
_  
They were really getting into the spirit of the song, now. Handkerchiefs were tied onto heads and makeshift eye-patches were hastily created using whatever was handy: bottle caps, poker chips, even the playing cards punched with holes and held on by a bit of string. The drunker they got, the more ridiculous they acted. Sketch Paree, still unhappily sober but too proud and stubborn to sully his palate with anything other than wine or champagne, pressed his hands against the sides of his head and glared malevolently at the lot of them. The singing, particularly to his ears, was utterly appalling.

_"We're rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirates life for_–_"_

*** CRUNCH! * KER-BLOING! ***

Unable to stand it any longer, Sketch (who was not a patient or tolerant man by any stretch of the imagination) had suddenly leaped up, snatched the guitar out of Mumbles' hands and – with a cry of "_Touché!"_ – bashed him over the head with it. The wooden instrument burst into splinters with a discordant jangle of breaking guitar strings. Luckily for Mumbles, it was really more of a prop guitar and not made of hardwood, or he might have been injured by it. He was stunned by the unexpected assault, though, and for a moment his fingers continued to strum and change key on the empty air, as though he couldn't believe what had just happened.

The sight produced a roar of laughter from most of the other gangsters. "Looks like the Mumbles Quartette has broken up again!" the Brow guffawed.

"Well, that's show business," snickered Flattop.

"Encore! Encore!" B-B Eyes called, clapping his hands mockingly.

Itchy, Oodles and the Mole all returned to their tables without a word, and Mumbles was left alone in the spotlight of ridicule, the fragments of his shattered guitar hanging around his neck. Looking confused and a bit lost, he glanced around; searching through the roomful of unsympathetic faces for the one person he thought might lend him some support.

As Fate would have it, Stooge Viller had momentarily stepped out to visit the little thug's room, and had missed seeing Sketch Paree break up the pirate act. Shock gradually gave way to ire. When Stooge returned, a seething Mumbles confronted him, too angry to even mumble, much less speak.

"Hey, Mumbles, howzit goin'?" Stooge hiccupped, weaving a little on his feet. "Some party, eh? You havin' a good time?" Finally noticing the smashed instrument his buddy was wearing, he added, "Wha' happen'? You break your guitar, or somethin'?"

His only reply a low, guttural snarl, Mumbles turned on his heel and stormed out of the galley, taking a mostly-empty bottle of Scotch with him. If Stooge had been a little less drunk, he might have gone after him immediately, demanding to know what was eating his friend. But the beer-soaked con artist hesitated – one last drink before leaving the party and going to check on Mumbles wouldn't hurt, now would it?

With a nasty sneer curling his lips, Sketch Paree leaned back in his seat and lit up an imported Parisian cigarette, satisfied at last. He never would have dared to do such a thing to the Brow or Pruneface or any of the others whom he considered to be too dangerous to rile, whether they were intoxicated or not. But he had no qualms about taking out his frustrations on someone whom he knew only as a language-mangling little twerp, and whom he considered to be an insignificant subordinate, at best.

But Sketch had underestimated Mumbles, who was not one to suffer humiliation lightly. Especially not when he was drunk...

* * *

_Uh-oh ... a drunken Mumbles was bad enough, but a drunken _angry_ Mumbles could mean trouble for everyone on board . . . including himself! Be sure not to miss the next installment.  
_


	7. Betrayed!

PART SEVEN: Betrayed!

Down in the hold where all the supplies were kept, a lone figure gathered up a few items, alternately mumbling angrily and chuckling drunkenly to himself. On legs that were wobbly from too much alcohol, the figure staggered back topside with his arms full of something … one fall and the story would end right then and there. Nevertheless, he and his ominous burden managed to make it back to the cabin without mishap.

* * *

Approximately eight and a half minutes later, Stooge Viller finished his last beer and tottered away from the party, intending to find Mumbles and hopefully persuade him to rejoin the others. Nobody had filled him in on just what had occurred to make his crime partner stomp out of the galley in a huff. The Brow had mentioned something about the "Mumbles Quartette" breaking up again, but he (along with almost everyone else) was too sloshed to give an accurate account, and Stooge remained ignorant of how the guitar had ended up busted around Mumbles' neck.

Sketch Paree, the only sober person present, had a canary-eating smile on his vampire-like face, but he said not a word to Stooge. Having done the damage he wanted, the crooked Parisian decided to retire for the evening, pleased with the knowledge that he had at least managed to spoil the party for one other person.

Little did he know that it was about to be ruined for everyone else as well...

The night was dark as a villain's heart; neither moon nor stars could be seen outside. The only lights came from the windows of the _Dutch Master_, and these alone enabled Stooge – with some difficulty – to find his way back to the cabin he shared with Mumbles. For a moment he worried that his disgruntled partner might have locked him out, but this fear was dispelled as the doorknob turned easily in his grasp. "Hey, Mumbles, y'sure you won't come back to the party? That sourpuss Paree went to bed, and–"

Stooge's voice died in his throat with a strangled gasp. For a frozen instant he stood in the doorway, eyes wide with horror, unable to believe what he was seeing. There in the middle of the cabin floor sat a keg of gunpowder girdled with sticks of dynamite, attached to a very, very short lit fuse. Beside it lay the smashed remains of a guitar. A wave of instant sobriety hit Stooge, and he did what any normal, sober individual would have done in his place . . . .

* * *

The party was winding down, and several of the thugs were starting to nod off at their tables when the scream was heard. Those that were still having conversations fell silent, but before any of them could inquire, "What was _that?"_ a tremendous *** KER-BLAMM ! ! *** that sounded like the door being blown off of a bank vault shook the entire ship from stem to stern. All those present in the galley tumbled off of their chairs from the concussion of the blast.

"What in blazes–?" yelped the Brow as he tried to stand up on the now violently-rocking ship.

The other villains, all in various stages of drunken confusion, began to panic.

"We've struck an iceberg!"

"Abandon ship!"

"We're sinking!"

"I can't swim!"

"Neither can I!"

"PIPE DOWN, YOU MORONS!" the Brow roared. "There's no icebergs in these waters. This ain't the _Titanic,_ for Pete's sake."

The ship was rocking less violently now, and as it apparently was calming down, so did the criminals. "But what was that noise, then?" Itchy, scratching more rapidly than usual, wanted to know. "And the scream that came just before it – who made that?"

"Well, it obviously wasn't any of us here. That means it could have only been–"

"–Stooge, Mumbles or Sketch Paree, see?" B-B Eyes finished.

"I assure you, it was not I, m'sieur," replied the Parisian from where he stood in the doorway, now clad in a black silk dressing gown. "I was just getting ready for bed when I 'eard ze scream and zen ze kaboom."

"I'm fairly certain it wasn't Mumbles," Pruneface put in. "That fellow seems incapable of raising his voice, much less of screaming like that. It must have been Stooge."

"Hey, you don't suppose Mumbles shot Stooge, do you?" pondered Oodles. "He was pretty sore when he left here, though I ... (hic) ... can't seem to recall why..."

"That wasn't a gunshot." Flattop said matter-of-factly. "It sounded more like an explosion."

The Brow glared at him. "An explosion? For cryin' out loud, we're all just standing here jawing like idiots, and there could be a hole blown in the ship! C'mon, let's check it out."

Despite their current concern, they were all (with the exception of Sketch Paree) still three sheets to the wind. Weaving, staggering, bumping into each other, they managed to all pile out of the galley and onto the deck, eventually making their way to the cabin shared by Mumbles and Stooge. The door was standing open, swaying gently with the motion of the ship. Inside, they found Stooge Viller crumpled in a heap before an open window.

"Dead?" asked Flattop.

The Brow reached down and turned him over with one hand. "Nah, he's alive," he answered. "Just dead drunk like the rest of us." He and B-B Eyes hauled the dazed Stooge to his feet. "What happened, Viller? We heard you yell, and an explosion. Where's Mumbles?"

"Ma...ha...homina...dyna..." Stooge stammered. He was shaking all over.

The Brow grinned. "You been hanging around with your buddy for too long. You're starting to sound like him." The grin faded as he continued, "Now stop mumbling and spit it out, man."

"Muh-Mumbles–" gasped Stooge, "–just tried to blow up the ship! He – he used the dynamite we stole and lit a bundle of it – tied around a powder keg – right here in this room! I threw it – out the window – and it exploded before it hit the water! If I had been – just one second later–"

He fell silent, and the silence extended to the rest of the villains for several shocked seconds. Then the Brow snarled, "Why, that dirty little yellow-bellied rat!"

"What did he do _that_ for?" wondered the Mole.

"The thing _I_ want to know," said Pruneface in a low and terrible voice, "is where is he, now?"

* * *

_Where _did_ Mumbles go? If you know your classic Chester Gould tales, it shouldn't be too hard to guess. But will this story end up the same as that one . . . ?_


	8. A Con Man's Curse

PART EIGHT: A Con Man's Curse

Some distance away from the _Dutch Master_, a rubber life raft floated in the blackness, the solitary figure slumped within it, an empty bottle of Scotch clasped under one arm like a teddy bear. The alcohol had finally claimed Mumbles; he would lie in his drunken stupor for hours. How he had exulted, waving his arms and kicking up his heels in childish glee when he'd heard the sound of the explosion! "Ididit, Ididit!" he gloated. "Iblewmallup! Delnevr laffat Mumblesagin – (hic) – nevragin!"

Though the lightless night sky made it impossible to see, he imagined what the sinking ship must look like, with his former friends and associates scrambling for their lives (those that weren't killed outright by the blast, that is), only to end up drowning miserably in the watery depths, for Mumbles had cunningly poked holes in all of the rubber life rafts except for the one he had escaped on.

Drowned like the rats that they were. A fitting and appropriate end, indeed. Content in his supposed vengeance, Mumbles fell asleep in the gently bobbing raft, as blissfully unaware of the awful predicament he had gotten himself into as he was of the first few raindrops that began to sprinkle his sleeping form . . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a more-or-less thorough search, the other gangsters were able to determine that Mumbles had literally jumped ship; the vandalized life rafts had been found, and it was noted that one of them was missing altogether.

"Well, that saves us the bother of plugging the little jerk," said the Brow. "He'll never survive out there on a raft with no food or water. Even if he took some with him, it won't last long. And now the rest of us will each get bigger shares of the treasure."

"Pity, though," Pruneface commented. "I was hoping to have had the pleasure of finishing him off myself."

Stooge Viller didn't say anything. As the others all finally stumbled away to their own cabins, he remained standing on the deck, leaning against the rail for support, staring at nothing, for there was nothing to see. Never had a night looked so black to him; no city or streetlights, no moon or stars – it was more like being in a watery dungeon than out on the open sea. A raindrop struck the brim of his fedora. Well, that explained why no heavenly bodies were visible – they were hidden by a thick layer of clouds. Storm clouds, he guessed, judging by the wind that was picking up, blowing salty spray into his face and making his eyes smart.

He no longer felt drunk or even tired. What he did feel was the beginning of what promised to be a vicious hangover; his temples were already starting to throb with pain. More than this, however, was the feeling of rage and betrayal building up inside of him, and the more it grew, the worse his head pounded. Far away across the water, a flash of lightning briefly lit up the sky. The thunder followed a few seconds later, a long, angry, rumbling growl. It had barely died away when Stooge exploded with his own thunder:

_"Curse you, Mumbles!"_ he bellowed, shaking his fist at the blackness. _"How could you do this to me? We was partners_ – _I thought we was pals! All those capers we pulled off together, all those jailbreaks we helped each other with_ – _did all that just mean_ nothin' _to ya?"_

Behind him, a cabin door opened and the Mole stuck out his ugly, bourbon-flushed face. "Uh, Stooge, Sketch told me to send you to ... no wait, I mean, Sketch sent me to tell you to kinda keep it down out there ... I mean, out here ... onna `count of we're gettin' to try some sleep ... I mean, tryin' to get some ... uhh ..." His voice trailed off as it eventually occurred to him that Stooge wasn't listening to a word he was saying; the enraged con artist was still raving and cursing at the absent Mumbles.

_"You ... you backstabbing little weasel! I hope ya drown out there! I hope ya starve to death_ – _an' die of thirst! I hope lightnin' strikes you, ya little_–_"_

*** * * CRACKA-BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM! * * ***

The storm broke with a sudden, terrifying fury as a thunderclap sounded directly over the _Dutch Master_. The Mole retreated into the darkness. Stooge scuttled back to his own cabin like a frightened rat, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it as though fearful that some irate storm god would try to batter it down. Though he had only been in the rain for a few seconds, he was soaked to the skin; water dripped freely off of his clothes and formed a puddle at his feet.

"Did I cause that?" he wondered out loud in semi-drunken befuddlement as he pulled an already-damp handkerchief from his pocket and tried to dry his face with it. He had uttered many a curse in the past (mostly towards his old arch-nemesis, Dick Tracy), but never had there been such a dramatic response to one before. _Get a grip, Stooge _–_ it's just a coincidence,_ he told himself, mopping his forehead.

Through the door, he could feel the power of the storm as the wind-driven rain beat itself against the ship. The sound of it howling at the windows and portholes was enough to unnerve anyone. As he began to wring the rainwater out of his hat, Stooge forgot for a moment how furious he was at his ex-partner in crime as he muttered, "Geeze, I hope Mumbles will be all right out there..."

* * *

_One villain down, nine to go. How many do you think are actually going to survive this adventure? And is Mumbles really out of the picture for good? You'll find out in the next installment..._


	9. The Morning After

PART NINE: The Morning After...

A collective "GROAN!" went up from eight anguished throats on board the _Dutch Master_ the following morning. Of course, hangovers are not fun no matter where you have one, but a hangover on board a rolling ship can literally make you wish you were dead. Soon, the railings on both the port and starboard sides had bodies leaning weakly over them, and it's a wonder that none of the afflicted criminals fell overboard as they were all violently ill. This time, seasickness pills did not do much to relieve their distress, since it was impossible for them to keep anything down.

_"Bonjour, mes amis._ Lovely morning, is it not? Who wants to share zis delicious meal with me?"

Sketch Paree, like the sadistic so-and-so he was, could not resist adding to the misery of his fellow villains by flaunting his own good health and well-being in their faces. He had prepared himself a pungent breakfast of poached eggs and grilled salmon, carrying it out on a tray past all of the others who were already feeling so nauseated, teasingly offering them some and then grinning when they retched anew.

Noticing B-B Eyes hanging over the starboard rail, Sketch approached him with the breakfast tray. "M'sieur B-B Eyes, I do believe your day as ze Capitaine of zis ship is over, no? And since no one else is currently fit to be ze Capitaine zis fine day, I will assume ze duty myself. Now, if you will kindly 'and over ze treasure map..."

"Nyehh, do what you like," moaned B-B Eyes as he slowly withdrew the map from his jacket (which he had slept in) and passed it to Sketch. "Just take that tray away and let me die in peace, see? Ooohh, my head..."

"Get outta here, Paree." The Brow, who was nearby, gasped in-between heaves, "If you and your breakfast aren't out of smelling range in five seconds, I swear I'm gonna break you in half – urk – (_rrhuralkh_)."

"Don't yell, Brow, please don't yell..." Oodles whimpered, clutching his head between his flabby hands.

The Parisian shook his head in mock dismay as he tucked the treasure map into his coat pocket. _"Zut alors,_ zat is no way to speak to your _Capitaine!_ But Paree is forgiving. Zere is a pot of strong coffee in ze galley, brewed by yours truly. If any of you want some, you will 'ave to go and get it yourselves. I am not ze valet."

"You're all heart, Paree," grumbled Flattop, in a tone that meant just the opposite.

Nevertheless, as the morning wore on, they all eventually gravitated towards the galley in an attempt to soothe their hangovers with a cup of hot java. Stooge Viller was the last one to arrive, and there was little more than the grainy dregs of coffee remaining in the pot when he got there. None of the others spoke a word of greeting to him, and he fancied it was because they somehow held him at least partially responsible for what Mumbles had done the night before. Guilt by association, as it were. Sullenly, he filled his coffee mug and swilled down the contents – which nearly made him sick again due to its bitterness – after which he promptly left the galley to return to his cabin and sulk alone.

He stayed there the rest of the day, alternately cursing Mumbles (silently this time) and fretting over the fate of his ex-partner in crime. What, in the name of all the gods of the underworld, had prompted Mumbles's attempt to blow up the ship? Not that every single person currently on board the _Dutch Master_ wasn't a murderer in their own fashion, but that was beside the point. Stooge knew his former friend well enough to know that Mumbles wasn't one to kill somebody purely on a whim, not even when drunk. There had to have been a motive, some spark that had touched off the powder keg, so to speak.

But Stooge was not inclined to ask the others about it, seeing as how they blamed him as much as they did Mumbles (or so he thought). Feeling paranoid, hung-over and very much put-upon, he could not imagine that anyone else felt as miserable as he did then.

Which only went to show that Stooge did not possess much of an imagination, for there _was_ someone else who was currently feeling far worse than himself at that moment...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As with most of the other crooks who were still on the ship, Mumbles had likewise awoken to a raging hangover. But while theirs had merely made them wish they were dead, the combination of a bludgeoning headache, nausea and intense thirst led him to believe – at least temporarily – that he had already died and been sent to Hell for his many crimes. For while the others back on the _Dutch Master_ had access to coffee, aspirin and fresh water to help ease their torments, Mumbles had no such luxuries aboard his small life raft. To top it off, he was also completely soaking wet from the previous night's storm, and this left him shivering with cold, especially when a stray sea breeze blew across the waves.

As the Brow had surmised, Mumbles had no food with him, and no drinking water. There was some rainwater in the bottom of the raft, but it had too much salty brine mixed in with it from when the storm-driven waves had splashed over him, and taking even a small sip of it left him thirstier than ever.

He stared imploringly up at the sky, wishing it would rain again so that he could possibly catch some fresh rainwater in the empty whiskey bottle that he still had with him, but the heavens above had no pity for the suffering criminal, and sent neither rain nor snow. Nor did the hazy sunshine do much to dry his uncomfortably damp clothing – it only stabbed into his bloodshot eyes and contributed to his pain.

Later, as the day progressed and his hangover gradually abated, Mumbles began to more fully realize the folly of his actions. He remembered the explosives he had lit, remembered escaping in the rubber raft after puncturing the other rafts to make certain there would be no other survivors besides him. He remembered hearing the explosion after he had drifted a safe distance from the ship.

What Mumbles could not seem to remember, however, was just _why_ he had done it. The empty bottle of Scotch gave him a clue that he had obviously not been thinking very clearly when whatever it was had happened. He did recall being rather angry about something, but now that he was sober, he simply could not recollect what it had been. All he knew was that unless someone in a boat or a seaplane happened to come by soon and notice him, he was a doomed man.

* * *

_The wheels of fate and justice continue to turn. What will they point to in the days to come? And is Dick Tracy ever even going to show up in this story?? Time will tell..._


	10. Who's to Blame?

PART TEN: Who's to Blame?

_"SACRE BLEU!"_

The cry of shocked dismay came from the wheelhouse, where the ship's navigational computer was located. Sketch Paree stared incredulously at the coordinates registering on the computer's readout, then quickly unrolled the treasure map and gaped at the numbers that were scrawled across the backs of all five pieces that were now taped together. _Non,_ it could not be true! But it was all too true – the numbers did not match. They were traveling in the wrong direction!

Though no longer hung over, the dozing gangsters were none too pleased to have their post-hangover beauty naps rudely interrupted by the sound of the ship's bell clanging wildly. Grumbling and complaining, they made their way to the wheelhouse. "What is it now, Paree?" groused the Brow.

"Zat is _Capitain_e Paree to you, m'sieur!"

"All right, all right, _Cap-i-tan_ Paree. Now tell us why you rang."

When Sketch filled them in on the awful truth, all of the villains immediately began blaming each other for it.

"It's your fault, B-B Eyes," Itchy said accusingly. "You were the one who entered the coordinates before we left."

"MY fault? Nyahh, I entered those numbers exactly as they appeared on the map! Somebody must have changed them, see?"

"Well, don't look at me with those beady eyes of yours – _I_ didn't do it!"

Oodles appeared to be deep in thought, an unusual state for him. "Didn't I see Flattop poking around the wheelhouse yesterday, before the party?" he finally asked.

"That's a load of bunk! Anyway, I didn't touch anything. All I did was look at the computer."

"Yes, but with a face like yours, it's a wonder it didn't stop working completely," commented Pruneface.

"Your pan's no beauty contest winner, either!" Flattop snapped, balling his hands into fists.

"Oh, knock it off, the both of you." said Stooge, stepping between them. "If you ask me, I think that the coordinates must've gotten scrambled during last night's storm, what with all the lightning and electricity that was in the air."

The Brow considered this. "Maybe ... or _maybe_ it happened when the explosion went off. I'll bet that was it! The concussion from the blast must have done it. So it's really Mumbles's fault."

"Aw, come on, you can't prove that..." Stooge found himself saying, but his protest was lost in a chorus of "Yeah!" "That's right!" "It's all because of Mumbles!" "Nyahh, I hope the sharks got him..."

"Did you fix the coordin – uh, the coornid – um, the little number thingys, Sketch?" asked the Mole.

"Of course I did, you imbecile. If I 'adn't, we would probably all end up sailing to ze isle of Alcatraz!"

Pruneface's grisly visage looked even grimmer than usual. "That means we've wasted at least a day's supply of fuel, not to mention food and water, while going the wrong way. I suggest we ration ourselves for the remainder of this voyage. No more extravagant parties like last night's."

"Are you kidding?" replied Itchy, scratching his head like it was infested. "After this morning, I'm seriously tempted to get on the water wagon for keeps!"

Oodles was also scratching his head, but it wasn't due to itchiness. "Hey Brow, what did Pruneface mean by 'ration ourselves'?"

"He meant that you may have to go on a diet, Chubsy," the Brow answered, half-grinning as he poked his portly partner in his enormous paunch.

"Oh no!" Oodles gasped. "Not that! _Anything_ but that!"

The sun was going down, forming a stunningly beautiful sunset that nobody on board the _Dutch Master_ appreciated, so wrapped up were they all in their own petty thoughts and concerns. Stooge was rather annoyed that everyone else was so quick to make a scapegoat out of Mumbles. Flattop was furious with Pruneface for having had the gall to make a crack about his personal appearance. Oodles was appalled at the thought of possibly being forced to go on a diet. And Sketch Paree was disgruntled by the realization that he would have to give up being the ship's _Capitaine _the next day.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the water and many miles away, Mumbles huddled in his life raft, feeling very hungry, desperately thirsty, still rather damp and cold, and (though he hated to admit it) extremely scared. And one other thing that he also could hardly bear to acknowledge – he was lonesome. But he refused to allow himself to think about Stooge Viller. The blond hoodlum was convinced that he felt wretched enough without the added burden of guilt – something he was quite unaccustomed to – for thoughtlessly having killed off his best (and truth be told, his only) friend in the world...

* * *

_My thanks to those who have been following this story so far. Sure, there's been no reviews as of this posting, but my traffic page tells me I'm getting quite a few hits, some from rather exotic places (waves to readers from Thailand, India and Germany). So I know that several people are interested, even if they don't feel like reviewing. Keep checking for new chapters (I usually update once a week); there's lots more to come!_


	11. The Reluctant Captain

PART ELEVEN: The Reluctant Captain

Another restless night at sea; though the ocean outside was now dead calm, Stooge Viller tossed and turned on his bed, unable to get to sleep until well past midnight. Part of the reason was due to the fact that there was a pesky little rat – one of the four-legged variety – scurrying around inside the wall and occasionally making gnawing sounds. Before he finally dropped off, Stooge made a mental note to check the supplies in the hold the next morning, to see if some rat poison might be stashed there.

When he woke up a few short hours later, sunlight streaming into his eyes, he rolled over and groaned: "Ohhhhh ... Mumbles, I had the craziest dream last night. I dreamt you went nuts and tried to blow up the ship, and then you ... uh ... oh, yeah..." The sight of the empty bunk across the room that had not been slept in brought him back to reality like a splash of cold seawater. Mumbles was gone. Stooge had lost his crime buddy. His initial anger over the perceived betrayal was slowly being replaced with depression.

Before he could get a really good mope going, however, somebody pounded on the door to his cabin. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty – time to wake up!" came the unmistakable voice of Flattop. "We're about to draw straws to find out who's gonna be Captain today."

As far as Stooge was concerned, Oodles could be Captain for the remainder of the voyage, for all he cared. Nevertheless, he dragged on his clothes and made his way to the forward deck, where the others were impatiently waiting. B-B Eyes was holding a brown paper bag with the ends of seven broom straws poking out of the top of it. "'Bout time you showed up, Viller. You're slower than a tortoise with three wooden legs, see?" This produced snickers from several of the other criminals.

"Bug off," Stooge growled irritably as he joined the group of potential captains. "Let's just get this stupid ritual over with so I can go back to my cabin. I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Sheesh, what a grouch!" Itchy commented as he scratched his shoulder. "What's your problem, anyway? Aren't you through being hung-over yet?"

"Nah, he ain't hung-over." The look on the Brow's face was something midway between a smirk and a sneer. "He's just carrying a torch for Mumbles, right, Viller?"

"I am _not!" _he shot back. Where, Stooge wondered, had _that_ come from?

Pruneface grimaced. "Save it for later, you buffoons. Just select a straw and we'll see who gets custody of the treasure map today."

With the exception of B-B Eyes and Sketch Paree, they all reached for a straw. Stooge deliberately chose what appeared to be the shortest one – but to his surprise, it just kept coming out of the bag, until it was obvious that he was to be that day's Captain and keeper of the treasure map, which Paree grudgingly turned over to him.

"Any orders, 'Captain' Viller?" the Brow asked half-mockingly.

"Yeah," replied Stooge. "Just shut up and stay outta my face."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Back on that first afternoon of the voyage, Stooge had looked forward to possibly becoming the ship's Captain for a day. Getting to boss the others around, getting temporary custody of the treasure map, getting to wear the Captain's cap and sleep in the opulent Captain's cabin – it had all seemed like it would be great fun at the time. He and Mumbles had even made a wager as to which one of them would end up being appointed Captain first.

This, of course, had been before the ill-fated party of that particular night, the results of which had rendered the wager null and void. Now it all seemed so pointless. There probably wasn't any treasure where they were heading, anyway. It was all going to be for nothing.

A familiar voice intruded on his self-pity wallow. "Hey, uh, Skipper?"

Stooge glanced up in annoyance to see the Mole carrying a telescope under his arm. "Don't call me Skipper, y'dope. What d'you think this is, _Gilligan's Island?_ And you don't have to call me Captain, either. Just call me Stooge, same as always."

"Ok, Ski– uh, Stooge. It's just that I spotted somethin' while lookin' through this spyglass, and I thought maybe I should tell you, you bein' Cap'n and all..."

"All right, what did you see?" Stooge asked in a totally disinterested tone. "A flying fish, I suppose? Or maybe a mermaid?"

The Mole shook his unsightly head. "Nope, nothin' like that. It looked more like a life raft."

"Ohh, a life raft..." Two seconds later, the significance sunk in. "A LIFE RAFT?! Where? Where did you see it? Is it still there? Show me!"

The Mole started to lead the way, but Stooge was already racing to the wheelhouse. Quickly, he flipped the switch on the _Dutch Master's_ navigational computer from "automatic pilot" to "manual," and then he switched off the ship's engine. If the Mole's find was what he thought it was ... if it was _who_ he thought it was...

Then, suddenly recalling the crack the Brow had made earlier, Stooge abruptly became suspicious. "Mole, I swear, if this is some prank the others put you up to, I'm gonna–"

"No, really, I saw it, I really did!" The Mole seemed to be in earnest. "I found this spyglass, and was hopin' to spot that island we're supposed to be headed for, and I noticed this flashin' light far out across the water. I focused the spyglass on it, and there was this thing that looked like a rubber life raft. It was too far away for me to make out what was in it, though... There, see it? That little flash of light out there...?"

* * *

_Could it be...? Or -- could it be ... something else? And if it _is_ you-know-who, what do you suppose is going to happen when the others see him? Find out in the next installment..._


	12. Between the Devils and the Deep Sea

PART TWELVE: Between the Devil(s) and the Deep Blue Sea

In fact, that "little flash of light" was the sun reflecting off of an empty glass whiskey bottle. Ironically, the short-sighted Mole had indeed spotted the wayward Mumbles in his rubber raft. After more than 40 hours of being cast adrift, exposed to the elements without water or food, the blond-haired hoodlum was nearly delirious from thirst and hunger.

During this time, he had seen (or perhaps he had dozed off and dreamt of seeing) several different boats in the distance; once he could have sworn he saw a helicopter. But every time he tried to signal the phantom transport by standing up, waving his coat like a flag and yelling (and Mumbles actually _could_ yell when he really felt like it), it would always sail or fly on by without stopping, leaving him to curse incoherently and wonder why nobody would stop for him.

He would have been so grateful if anyone had rescued him – yes, even if it had been Dick Tracy in a police boat! A nice, dry jail cell and prison food, even bread and water sounded like first-class accommodations compared to his current situation. And he could always escape before being sent to the chair, just like he had countless times in the past with the help of Stooge ... oops. Mumbles smote himself in the forehead; he had momentarily forgotten that he was deliberately trying _not_ to think about his late partner in crime, whose death he himself was responsible for.

Now he lay dejectedly in the raft, wishing for the hundredth time that he had blown himself up with the other rats on board the _Dutch Master._ At least they had died quickly, he thought. More than once, he considered pitching himself over the side of the raft and ending it all, for Mumbles could not swim a stroke to save his life. But the thought of actually drowning, of the stinging salt water filling his throat and lungs as he choked and struggled for air – this was distasteful to him, and he held back despite the torture he was going through. Plus, like most villains, he had an instinctive horror of death, whether it meant oblivion – or worse, going to his just reward.

Thus, when he beheld the sight of the _Dutch Master_ heading his way, Mumbles felt certain that his end was near, that he was starting to see ghosts, which undoubtedly meant he would soon be one himself. As it drew closer, though – looking extraordinarily solid for a phantom ship – he dared to imagine that maybe it was real, that maybe he hadn't succeeded in blowing it up after all. However, far from bringing hope and relief, this revelation made him feel even worse. A chilling pain filled his gut, as though he had been stabbed in the belly with an icicle, and he sank down still lower in the life raft. "Stoojis gunnakillme," he whimpered softly to himself. "Anif hedon, totherzwill..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It wasn't long before the other gangsters realized that something was up, once they became aware that the ship's engine had been shut off. Several of them rushed on deck, naively thinking that they must have reached the island where the treasure was supposedly buried. When the real reason for stopping was made known, there were mixed reactions all around. Some, like Oodles and the Mole, had little or no memory of what had happened the night when they were all so drunk, and were actually in favor of taking Mumbles back on board the ship. Others, like the Brow and Pruneface, retained enough memory to hold a grudge, and would have preferred leaving Mumbles to the sea.

For his part, Stooge Viller was a stew of roiling emotions that kept changing from one minute to the next. At first he was elated at the realization that his old buddy was still alive. Then, almost as though an invisible devil had appeared on his shoulder and started whispering evil things in his ear, he felt hot resentment course through him again. Mumbles _had_ tried to kill them all. His "old buddy" had tried to kill _him!_ For that, there had to be a punishment, no question about it.

And yet ... the closer the ship drifted towards the raft, the more apparent it became that Mumbles had already been punished, and quite severely at that. He looked awful. His skin was sunburned, his matted hair resembled a thatch of dirty straw, and there were dark half-circles under his watery blue eyes. Stooge recalled part of the curse he had uttered the night Mumbles had jumped ship: _"I hope ya starve to death_ – _an' die of thirst!"_ He swallowed, as though his own throat had suddenly gone dry.

Sketch Paree, the only one of the lot who had a crystal-clear memory of what had happened the night of the party, began to fidget. He knew all too well the reason why Mumbles, in a fit of drunken temper, had attempted to blow up the ship. It was because Sketch, while fully sober, had interrupted Mumbles's guitar performance by grabbing it out of his hands and breaking it over his head. And while the Parisian felt no guilt over having done this, he did feel uneasy at the thought of Mumbles revealing what he had done, particularly to Stooge, the day's Captain.

Right then and there, Sketch made up his mind that Mumbles was not going to set foot back on the _Dutch Master._ Discreetly, he examined the _Le Français _7.65mm pistol that he always carried with him, making certain it was loaded.

While his motives were his own, the black-hearted Parisian wasn't alone in his desire to rub out Mumbles. "Isn't this ship equipped with a cannon?" asked Pruneface. "The original owner must have called himself Captain Cannonsmoke for a reason. If there is one, I suggest we find it and put it to good use."

"Nyaah! Great idea! Let's blow him outta the water, see?" B-B Eyes agreed, his namesake eyes rolling with maniacal glee. But, strange to say, there was no cannon to be found on board the _Dutch Master._

"Never mind," said the Brow, "Who needs a cannon? We can still have ourselves some target practice the good old-fashioned way!" He reached into his pocket for his favorite gun: a Luger P08 pistol. But he did not use it, at least not immediately; he twirled it on his finger in full view of Mumbles, who was now shaking with fright.

Stooge opened his mouth to say something, but much to his surprise, Oodles spoke out first. "Aw, gee whiz Brow – have a heart for once. The poor guy's been out on that raft for two whole days without food!" This detail alone had been enough to win Oodles's sympathy, since the corpulent criminal could hardly stand the thought of having to go two hours without eating, let alone two days.

The Brow scowled; he hadn't expected to get into an argument with his own crime partner over what to do with Mumbles. "In case you've forgotten, Oodles, that 'poor guy' tried to do us all in with a keg of gunpowder! He double-crossed us, and if there's anything I can't tolerate, it's a double-crosser!"

"You must have a hard time livin' with yourself, then," Stooge muttered sardonically. "Seriously, Brow – are you really gonna stand there and try to get us to believe you've never double-crossed anybody in your entire life? Let's face it, we've _all_ done that!"

"Maybe so, but not to each other!" The Brow was starting to get defensive. "Double-crossing ordinary everyday suckers is one thing, but I'd never double-cross a fellow crook!"

"But Brow, what about that time when you and 88 Keyes–"

_"Shuttup_ Oodles!" After a short but uncomfortable pause, the Brow added, "Anyway, he had it coming to him. And now, Mumbles is gonna get what's coming to _him!"_ He started to aim his Luger towards the cowering figure in the rubber raft...

"Hold it, Brow!" hissed Stooge, seizing the other villain by the wrist. "You're forgetting that I'm the Captain of this tub today. And I don't recall giving you an order to shoot."

A bit taken aback by this brazen behavior, the Brow pulled his arm away, but kept his weapon lowered. Then his teeth flashed in a scornful grin. "Oh, of course, 'Captain' sir, I did forget – as Captain, _you_ should be the one to take the first shot at him!" His steely gaze hardened still more. "So go ahead, 'Captain,' let's see you do it – if you've got the guts to do it, that is..."

* * *

_Egads, don't you just hate cliffhangers like these?. To all those who have actually read this far -- thank you! You won't be sorry you stuck with it when you see the upcoming installments..._


	13. Stooge's Dilemma

PART THIRTEEN: Stooge's Dilemma

Stooge Viller was in a quandary, to say the least. Part of him actually was tempted to give in to his darkest nature, and either shoot Mumbles now or leave him to die in his raft. To let him finish dying, rather, since his former partner in crime had already gone without water for two days, and looked like he was halfway dead already. Two or three more days should spell the end of him for sure. A quick bullet to the head would be kinder than abandoning him to the sea.

But it seemed that somewhere deep within the shadowed recesses of Stooge's corrupted soul, a tiny spark of humanity existed. No, he didn't really want to murder his old friend, even in spite of the latter's recent act of treachery. He would never admit this to a living being, but he had come to regard Mumbles as a sort of brother, a somewhat goofy kid brother that he'd never had. (Stooge's only sibling was a sister named Maxine, and he'd fallen out of touch with her.) Being able to understand what Mumbles said when most other folks couldn't comprehend a word was something that he'd always appreciated. They were like two overgrown kids – two bad-boy "brothers" who shared a one-sided secret code, of sorts ... and who were constantly getting into trouble together.

However, there was a third factor involved in the decision of whether to save Mumbles or not, and it had to do with the rest of the criminals. Clearly, the Brow, Pruneface and B-B Eyes all wanted revenge for what Mumbles had done (or tried to do), and if Stooge as Captain denied them the retribution they craved, things could get ugly for him. While he might have stood up to any one of them on an individual basis, the thought of having all three of them turn against him was unnerving.

"Okay," he announced finally. "We're going to take a vote on whether Mumbles lives or dies. Whatever the majority agrees upon, that's what will happen. Now, whoever thinks we should allow Mumbles to come back on board the ship, raise their hand."

Oodles's chubby arm went up. The Brow glared at him, but said nothing. Then the Mole raised his hairy hand; he was feeling rather proud of himself for having been the one to spot Mumbles on the raft, and didn't want it to have been for naught. Sketch Paree knitted his eyebrows and set his teeth, but he too kept silent, keeping one hand in his jacket pocket.

"Itchy..." Pruneface said warningly, as his associate's hand hesitantly rose up in an affirmative vote.

"I can't help it, Pruneface," Itchy replied, scratching anything he could reach with his other hand. "Just looking at him in that raft and imagining what he must have gone through is making my skin crawl."

"_Everything_ makes your skin crawl, you fidgety fool," retorted Pruneface. "And stop that infernal scratching!"

For a moment, it looked as though those three would be the only votes cast in favor of rescuing Mumbles. Then, with an almost imperceptible smile curling his lips, Flattop raised his hand.

"Not you too, Flattop!" exclaimed B-B Eyes. "Why, man, why?"

"I have my reasons," the grotesque gangster replied. He did not elaborate on what those reasons were, but the truth was, Flattop did not care about Mumbles one way or another. He had cast his vote simply because he did not want to be on the same side as Pruneface, whom he was still miffed at after yesterday's insult. Plus, it amused him to see the looks of shock and disbelief on the faces of the others.

No further hands were raised. "That's four votes to save Mumbles," said Stooge. "Okay now – let's see a show of hands for those who _don't_ want to save him."

Up went the hands of the Brow, Pruneface, B-B Eyes and Sketch Paree. "That's four against, and four in favor. It's a tie."

"What about you, Skip– uh, I mean, Stooge?" asked the Mole. "You didn't vote."

"That's right, 'Captain' Viller," the Brow agreed, leering at him. "Your vote will be the tiebreaker. And I advise you to think it over _very_ carefully before you choose..." There was definite menace in his voice, and though he had returned his Luger to his pocket, his hand was still resting on it.

Stooge groaned inwardly. By taking a vote, he had hoped that some of the responsibility for deciding Mumbles's fate would be shunted off to someone else, but that plan had obviously backfired. It was all up to him now. Had he been alone, he knew what his choice would have been. But with those four pairs of eyes glaring murderously at him...

Unable to escape from the raft or defend himself in any way, Mumbles knew his number was almost up. For the first time since the _Dutch Master_ had found him, he dared to look his former friend and crime partner directly in the eye. _"Stooj..."_ he tried to say, but his throat was so parched that all he could produce was a hoarse croak.

The fact that Mumbles had finally made eye-contact with him was not lost on Stooge, though he could not tell if the blond hood's attempt to speak had been a plea for mercy ... or merely a farewell.

"We're all waiting, Viller," Pruneface growled between his teeth.

"All right, all right," Stooge declared, turning his back on Mumbles to face the others. "I've made up my mind. As today's Captain, and since my vote will settle the matter, I have decided..."

Everyone leaned forward expectantly.

"...to allow Mumbles to come back on board the ship."

Oodles and the Mole high-fived each other. Itchy looked pleased as he scratched his wrist, while Flattop merely smirked. Down in the raft, Mumbles let out his held breath in a long sigh. _Goodol Stooj,_ he thought to himself.

Perhaps he wouldn't have felt so relieved if he had heard what "good old Stooge" was whispering to the four disgruntled villains who hadn't gotten their way: "And after we bring him back on board the ship, we'll all take turns beating the daylights out of him!" This mollified the Brow, Pruneface and B-B Eyes, who decided that this could be a fairly agreeable (and fun!) solution after all.

But Sketch Paree was having none of it, and knew that the time had come for him to act. _"Non,"_ he hissed, his hand moving with the quickness of a striking serpent as he whipped out his _Le Français _pistol. "'E is ze traitor, and 'e must die!"

"Wha–? MUMBLESLOOKOUT!" yelped Stooge just as Sketch took aim and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

_Sorry, another cliffhanger chapter. Better get used to them . . . ._


	14. A Botched Rescue Attempt

PART FOURTEEN: A Botched Rescue Attempt

*** BANG *** went Paree's pistol.

_Zeeoww_ went the bullet, literally parting Mumbles's hair as he ducked in the nick of time, thanks to Stooge's warning.

_Crash-tinkle_ went the empty bottle of whiskey as shards of glass flew everywhere – luckily Mumbles was now face-down in the raft, or he might have been blinded.

_Pssshhhhsshhh..._ went the raft as it was pierced not just by the bullet, but by slivers from the shattered bottle as well.

Still flat on his belly and too terrified to move, Mumbles felt his feet get wet first, then his shins, followed by his knees. The hissing sound became a bubbling as the ruptured end of the raft dipped below the surface. With fresh panic, he sat up and frantically tried to stop the air from leaking out, but there were just too many punctures. "Elp! Elp!" he cried piteously. "I'lldrown! I'lldrown!"

Sketch Paree grinned down at the sight of the floundering hood, looking even more Dracula-like than usual; all he lacked were a pair of fangs and a cape to complete the image. _"Oui,_ drown, m'sieur Mumbles. Drown like ze rat zat you are. And good riddance to–"

He never completed his sentence. Incensed by what Sketch had done, Stooge Viller had pulled out a blackjack and sent the Parisian off to dreamland with a single blow to the back of his head. As Paree slumped to the deck, Stooge dropped the blackjack and ran toward the railing nearest to the rapidly deflating raft. He knew that Mumbles could not swim, but he himself could. "Hang on, buddy," he hollered as he started to remove his jacket and shirt. "I'm–"

A sudden noise behind him stopped him cold, even as he was beginning to climb the rail. It was not a loud sound, but it was one that Stooge knew only too well: the sound of a bullet being slid into the loading chamber of a gun. The Brow – or Pruneface, or B-B Eyes – it didn't really matter which one of them it was. In that instant, Stooge realized that once he jumped into the water, he was a dead man, and Mumbles would drown all the same. A braver person (like, say, Dick Tracy) might have called the villains's bluff and dived in anyway, but Stooge was too much of a coward to risk it. Not even to save the life of his best friend, who was currently clinging despairingly to what was left of the raft, the water now up to his shoulders. "Elp-elp!" Stooge could still hear him calling. "S'body elpme!"

The distance from the ship to the raft was too great to toss him a life preserver. In desperation, Stooge turned to the four who had voted in favor of sparing Mumbles. "One of you guys has got to save him! Can any of you swim?"

"Not me," protested the Mole. "I've never swum a yard in my life. I'd sink like a stone out there."

"And I'm allergic to salt water," was Itchy's excuse. "It gives me a rash."

"What doesn't?" Stooge snarled derisively, but did not waste time pursuing the argument. "Flattop...?"

The flat, misshapen head shook slowly back and forth. "Don't look at me. You got my vote, but that's as far as it goes."

Stooge's voice nearly cracked as he faced the last, and probably the least likely, contender: _"Oodles?_ Please tell me you know how to swim!"

The morbidly obese and none-too-bright thug took a few seconds to contemplate the question. "Me? ... Swim? ... Nope, nope, can't say that I do..."

His final hope dashed, Stooge's shoulders drooped. "Then ... then I guess that Mumbles is a goner..."

Oodles shrugged apologetically. "Nope, sorry, but I really don't swim at all ... I can float like a cork, but that's not the same thing as swimming..."

"You can _WHAT?!"_

"It was this synthetic rubber formula that me an' the Brow stole a while back. When the cops caught up with us, I drank the formula so it couldn't be used as evidence against us. Ever since then, I've always floated on top of the water. Couldn't sink if yuh tied an anchor to me. Makes it tough to take a bath, lemmetellyuh..."

"Well, you're gonna take one now!" So saying, Stooge gave Oodles a tremendous kick in the backside that sent the latter over the railing and into the water with an almighty splash. "Now float on out there, you rubberhead, and let Mumbles grab onto you before he drowns. And that's an order from your Captain!"

"Watch it, Viller," gritted the Brow. "Captain or no Captain, you can't kick Oodles around like that. Only _I_ can kick Oodles around like that!"

True to his word, Oodles bobbed upon the surface of the water, looking for all the world like a giant inflatable beach toy. The kick hadn't hurt him (he was too well-padded to feel much pain back there). Lying on his back, he laced his thick fingers behind his head and began to move his stubby legs in a way that slowly propelled him closer to the drowning blond-haired criminal. "Hi yuh, Mumbles," Oodles called out to him cheerfully. "How're yuh doin'?"

Mumbles did not answer. Exhaustion, dehydration and sustained terror had taken their toll on him, and as the now-completely deflated raft slipped below the surface, so did he.

"Huh?" Oodles rolled over on the water and raised his sodden bangs, looking about in bewilderment. "Mumbles? Where'd yuh go?"

"He's under the water, you half-wit!" Stooge yelled from the ship. "Reach down and haul him back up, hurry!"

Obligingly, Oodles tipped forward until his head was submerged and his legs and rear end were in the air, like an enormous dabbling duck. For several long, anxious seconds he remained in this position before he finally straightened up, a triumphant grin on his fat face. "I've got him, Stooge. Here he is." And out of the water he pulled ... an extremely annoyed swordfish by its long nose. "Oops! Sorry, sir – uh, ma'am? – I thought yuh was Mumbles."

The swordfish shook itself free of Oodles's grasp, gave him a smack with its broad tail, then swam away in a huff. This produced loud guffaws from the ship, as B-B Eyes, Pruneface and the Brow were finding the botched rescue attempt to be even more entertaining than if they had managed to shoot Mumbles. Meanwhile, Stooge was chewing his nails to the quick; he did not find the spectacle to be the least bit funny. "For the love a' Mike, Oodles, can't you do _anything_ right? Look – that spot where all the bubbles are coming up – that's gotta be where he is. Try again!"

"I'll try," Oodles answered, "but if he's sunk too deep, I won't be able to reach him. I can't dive underwater, y'know..." Once again, he dipped his head and arms below the surface. This time he remained in that position for much longer than before. Half a minute went by, during which time the bubbles that marked the place where Mumbles had disappeared came up less and less frequently, until there weren't any more.

Finally, after nearly forty-five seconds, Oodles's head exploded up from the water, puffing and blowing like a surfacing whale. As soon as he could speak, he gasped out: "I did it! I found him! I've really got him this time!"

"Yeah?" Stooge asked dully, by now having clearly abandoned all faith in Oodles and giving Mumbles up for lost. "Y'sure you haven't latched onto an octopus or somethin'?"

Oodles tried to shake his wet hair out of his eyes. "Nope, it's Mumbles all right..." And to prove it, sure enough, he hauled up Mumbles – by one ankle. The rest of him remained under the water. "See?" Oodles said proudly. "I recognized his shoes!"

* * *

_*Blub-blub!* I don't recommend trying to hold your breath along with Mumbles when you read the next installment... _


	15. A Curse Fulfilled?

**PART FIFTEEN: A Curse Fulfilled?**

Stooge visibly paled at the sight of Mumbles's foot sticking up out of the water. "TURN HIM RIGHT-SIDE UP, YOU IDJIT!!" he bellowed at Oodles. "Ye gods, I don't believe this..." Behind him, he could hear the continuing roars of laughter from Pruneface, B-B Eyes and the Brow, and wished he had the nerve to turn around and punch all of their smart noses.

"Oh yeah, right..." Oodles concurred, fumbling a bit as he strove to bring Mumbles's head up out of the water. At last, he succeeded. "There! That's better, isn't it, Mumbles? ... uh, Mumbles...? Hey Stooge, Mumbles must be sore at me – he's not answering."

"Just ... just bring him back to the ship, willya Oodles?" Stooge's reply was strained.

A stout rope was lowered as the massive floating criminal paddle-kicked his way back to the _Dutch Master_, his unresponsive passenger in tow. "Tie it around Mumbles's waist – we'll haul him up first," said Stooge.

"Nuh-uh," Oodles shook his head stubbornly. "Yuh ain't leavin' me down here by myself! Pull us both up together; it'll save time."

_Time for you, but not for Mumbles,_ Stooge thought darkly, but he knew better than to waste more time carping. "We're gonna need another rope, then. Though what we really could use is a derrick..."

Itchy managed to find another strong anchor-rope, and this was lowered down alongside the other one. Then there were more delays as Oodles struggled to tie both ropes around his colossal girth without losing his grip on Mumbles. Finally, he was ready. "Haul away," he called up.

Lord knows, Stooge tried his best, bracing both feet against the railing and yanking with all his might, but the two ropes refused to budge. "Uhhh ..." he grunted. "C'mon, can't some of you guys help me? This walrus weighs a ton."

"I resent that!" Oodles cried indignantly. "I do _not_ weigh a ton! I don't even weigh half that much! Just last week I weighed myself, and the truck scale said I only weighed 467 pounds, so there!"

Nevertheless, the Mole came forward to add his strength to Stooge's. The ugly little man was actually quite a bit stronger than he looked; burrowing through the ground with his hands had made them powerful indeed. Oodles and his inert burden started to rise, but oh-so-slowly. Itchy lent a hand, but since he could only lend one (needing the other one free to scratch, of course), he wasn't much help. Flattop lit himself a cigarette and did not offer any assistance whatsoever.

"Ahh, nuts. This is gonna take all night!" It was the Brow who uttered this statement of impatient disgust as he stepped up to the back of the line and took hold of the ropes. "I'm only doing this ... because Oodles is my partner ... so don't any of you get the wrong idea, here," he explained as he put his back into hauling the pair to the top.

With the addition of the Brow's muscle, Oodles's dripping-wet pompadour finally appeared next to the railing, which he reached up and grabbed, heaving himself back onto the ship. Mumbles was slung over his shoulder like a broken store mannequin, and he looked as lifeless as one.

"Set him down, set him down," Stooge dithered needlessly, as Oodles was already laying the blond hoodlum face up on the deck. Dropping to his knees beside the stilled form, Stooge seized a wrist and began to chafe it, feeling for a pulse. "Mumbles ... Mumbles, wake up! It's me, your old pal, Stooge Viller! You're safe now ... we rescued you ... d'you hear me, Mumbles...?"

But Mumbles made no reply, and did not move at all, save for his head flopping back and forth as Stooge grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. "C'mon, buddy – don't just lie there – talk to me! Say something! Mumble for me, Mumbles! Or at least start breathing ... please ... just one little breath ... f-for your old pal ...?" His voice trailed off as he gradually stopped the shaking. Then, after gently laying the cold, wet body back down on the deck, he slowly reached up and took off his fedora.

"Tough luck, Viller." The Brow, ever ready to stick in the knife and twist it, offered some mock sympathy. "Looks like you'll have to find yourself a new crime partner. I hear that Steve the Tramp is up for parole soon; maybe you should look him up when he gets out of the pen."

Right then and there, Stooge knew that he had never hated anybody – no, not even Dick Tracy – as much as he hated the Brow at that moment. Steve the Tramp _had_ been Stooge's partner before Mumbles, but it was a partnership that had gone sour early on, and he didn't like to be reminded of it. However, he refused to even dignify the Brow's taunt with a retort. Looking at the pale face and closed eyes of his late friend, Stooge was once again tormented by the memory of the curse he had flung upon the waves the night all the trouble had started: _"I hope ya drown out there!"_

"I ... I didn't really mean it..." he whispered, wringing his hat between his hands.

He dimly became aware that somebody was tapping his shoulder. It was the Mole. "Stooge, get up a moment. I know what Mumbles needs. He needs some VCR. It may not be too late – he was only under the water for a minute or so."

"VCR? What the heck are you babbling abou–" Then the light dawned. "Geeze, you mean CPR, not VCR, you lunkhead! And none of us knows how to perform CPR."

"_I_ do," the Mole said simply.

"You?! Don't make me laugh. You couldn't even pronounce it correctly!"

The Mole frowned. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it, never mind then..."

"No, wait!" Stooge clutched at him. "If – if you really can do it, then by all means, _do it!"_

"Okay, but I'll need some help. First, turn him over so he's lying on his stomach..."

"On his stomach?" repeated Stooge, even as he was already rolling Mumbles over. "I thought CPR was given to patents lying on their backs, not on their stomachs..."

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," insisted the Mole. "Now, grab his wrists and stretch his arms out in front of him ... that's right, just like that. Somebody else needs to do the same thing to his legs. Itchy, would you mind...?"

"All right, but make it snappy," the bespectacled thug replied, giving himself a good scratch before reaching down to take hold of Mumbles's ankles.

"Don't worry, this won't take long. Now, just hold him still, while I perform a little alley-YOOP!" So saying, the Mole hopped into the air like an enormous toad and came down with all his weight on Mumbles's back, causing the latter's head to jerk up reflexively and spew about a gallon of seawater that mostly caught Stooge right in the face.

_"Agghthhpht,"_ Stooge spluttered, dropping Mumbles's wrists in a vain attempt to wipe the stinging salt water from his eyes. "Mole, you lunatic! What kinda CPR do you call that?!"

"I saw it done that way in a cartoon, once." he explained.

Flattop whistled. "It's a good thing Oodles didn't try that," he commented to B-B Eyes. "Otherwise, we'd have to scrape what's left of Mumbles off the deck with a shovel..."

* * *

. . . .


	16. Those Were Your Exact Words

**PART SIXTEEN: "Those Were Your Exact Words..."**

Stooge Viller gaped at the Mole. "You ... you ..." He struggled to find an appropriate epithet, but failed. "..._This ain't no cartoon!_ You've probably broken every bone in his body, jumping on him like that! How could anybody be so stupid as to–"

The Mole looked hurt. "I was only tryin' to help. And don't forget, if it wasn't for me, we never would have found him in the first place."

Stooge was dangerously close to becoming homicidal; the sound of the three most hateful villains laughing it up once again wasn't helping any. "Listen, if it wasn't for–"

"Hey, cool it, you guys," It was Itchy who was waving at them to be silent as he stared at Mumbles's body. "I think I just saw him move!"

"What? Impossible! I couldn't find a pulse..."

"Yeah, but that was before the Mole landed on him. They say that sometimes a violent shock–"

At that moment, any further doubts were removed as Mumbles burst into a paroxysm of coughing. Most of the seawater had been forced out of him, thanks to the Mole's unorthodox CPR method, but he spit up a few more ounces anyway. Stooge was down by his side in an instant, thumping his friend on the back in an effort to help him get rid of whatever was left.

When the fit finally passed, Mumbles lay gasping on the deck, still with his eyes closed. Stooge hooked his arms around his crime partner's chest, dragged him over to the pile of ropes that had been used to haul Oodles and him back onto the ship and set him down against them. "Can you hear me now, Mumbles?" Stooge repeated, once more kneeling and still clutching his hat in one hand.

The blond-headed criminal continued to wheeze and shudder as his oxygen-starved lungs drew in great draughts of air, but he did manage to nod briefly in response to Stooge's inquiry. _"Rowrbrazzfazzle..."_ he got out between gasps.

"_What_ did he say, Stooge?" asked Flattop.

"How should I know?"

"What do you mean, how should you know? We all know that you're the only one of us who can understand Mumbles."

Stooge glared at him. "Maybe it's because I'm the only one who actually _listens_ to him," he snapped. "But what he said just now wasn't talking – it just sounded like gibberish to me."

Pruneface sneered, "How in blazes can you tell the difference?"

Before Stooge could tell Pruneface where to stuff it, Mumbles raised a weak, trembling hand and caught hold of his shirt. He was definitely trying to say something, Stooge realized, and bent his head down to listen. "Wadduh..." Mumbles choked, sounding like his throat was caked with salt. Then, quite clearly, he enunciated: "WA-TER!"

Oodles looked confused. "After spitting out all that water, he wants some more?"

"He wants _fresh_ water, dumbbell," Stooge barked. "Hurry and bring us some – and _that's_ an order!"

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Oodles saluted. It just so happened that the Brow was about to pour himself a glass of water from a pitcher (no doubt intending to drink it in front of Mumbles), when Oodles unexpectedly snatched the jug out of his hand. "Sorry, Brow – Cap'n's orders," he said before whisking the water over to Stooge, leaving the Brow to clench his fists and fume.

"Okay, Mumbles, here y'go ... easy, easy there, don't drink it too fast, or you'll get a headache..." Stooge held the pitcher while Mumbles drank and drank, pausing every few sips to gasp some more, as if he still couldn't get enough oxygen; it almost sounded as though he were sobbing. When at last he'd had his fill, he released his grip on Stooge's shirt and lay against the ropes, limp as a wet rag doll, but alive and breathing.

Setting the half-empty pitcher aside, Stooge inquired, "Are you okay now, Mumbles?"

"...Iveltbettur..." his accomplice croaked.

"Yeah, I'm sure you've felt better, but what I want to know is, are you gonna be all right?"

"Uhh ... mebbe ... yehshur, Igesso..."

"Y'sure?"

Mumbles nodded, smiling faintly up at his old crime buddy.

"Well, then..." Stooge suddenly took the hat that he'd been holding in his hands and slapped Mumbles upside the head with it. "WHY THE HECK DID YOU TRY TO BLOW UP THE SHIP?!" he exploded. Mumbles cringed as a storm of furious words descended upon him, punctuated with further blows from the fedora (though he was grateful that Stooge was using his hat and not his fist). "You little maniac! Of all the bone-headed, idiotic, self-centered things to do! What were you _thinking?"_ He paused the assault momentarily to give his partner a chance to explain himself (assuming he could). "Just what got into you that night, anyway?"

"Umm..." Mumbles tried to remember. "...a zixpak ... anhaffa bottlaskotch..."

This answer did not serve to satisfy Stooge, who promptly gave him another smack with his battered fedora. "So you were drunk – big deal! We was all sozzled to the gills that night. But you were the only one who took it into your head to do the rest of us in. Including me!" *Whap* "Your own partner in crime and best buddy – me!" *_Thwap*_ "I can understand why you might want to bump off some of these other crumbs, but how could you do that to _me_, your boozum pal?!" *_Whappitty-thwap!*_

This last comment produced angry murmurs from several of the other gangsters. "Careful, Viller – you go too far..." the Brow said warningly.

"Ah, shaddap," Stooge flung over his shoulder, his ire making him brazen. He had stopped hitting Mumbles with his hat now, but the wrathful look in his eyes made the latter wince even more than getting slapped across the face with the fedora had. Dazed from the blows, his near-death experience and all the other events of the past 48 hours, Mumbles's thoughts were a whirlpool that he just couldn't sort out at that moment. "Why'd you do it?" Stooge kept asking. "What happened that night to make you want to kill us all?"

"I ... Iwuz ... maddabou ... taboutzumthin..."

"You was mad about somethin'? What? What was it? What could have possibly made you _that_ angry? Tell me, what?"

Mumbles shook his head helplessly. "Idunno! Icantrember! Donhit menymor, Stooj..."

This last plaintive request quenched some of the fire in Stooge's eyes. _Guess it's pointless to keep grilling him now,_ he thought. _Maybe after a good rest and some food he'll remember._ Stooge recalled that in addition to going without water for those two days, Mumbles also hadn't had anything to eat during that time. Just as he was about to make this suggestion, three ominous shadows fell over the two of them.

"All right, 'Captain'," said B-B Eyes, flanked on either side by Pruneface and the Brow. "Move aside. You've done your bit. Now it's our turn, see?"

A cold misgiving seized Stooge. "Whaddya mean, it's _your_ turn?"

"You promised us that we'd all get a chance to take it out on Mumbles's hide if we rescued him." Pruneface replied. "Have you forgotten? _'And after we bring him back on board the ship, we'll all take turns beating the daylights out of him!' _Those were your exact words, I do believe..."

* * *

_Boy, some crooks just never seem to get a break, do they? Maybe one will come their way in the next installment (but don't count on it)._


	17. When Criminals Prey Upon Criminals

**PART SEVENTEEN: When Criminals Prey Upon Criminals**

Now it was Mumbles's turn to feel the sting of betrayal. Had his "best buddy" Stooge Viller _really_ agreed to hand him over to be beaten up by three of the cruelest villains on board the ship? In his present condition, the blond hood knew he'd never survive such an ordeal. He was too weak to even stand up, let alone run away or fight back. Judging by the way B-B Eyes was already slipping a set of brass knuckles over his fingers, it was clear that he did not intend to hit Mumbles with his derby hat.

"Now wait just a minute, you guys," Stooge began. "I know I said ... what I said, but that was before Mumbles drowned – or just about drowned, anyway. And I heard the three of you braying like jackasses while he was out there drowning. You've had your fun at Mumbles's expense already. Can't you just let it drop, now?"

"Are you going back on your word, Viller?" hissed the Brow. "Because if you are, we just may have to beat some daylights out of _you_ as well!"

"Nyahh, and we've waited long enough, see?" B-B Eyes snarled as he reached down, snagged Mumbles by the shirt with one hand and yanked him up till his feet were no longer touching the deck. B-B's other fist (the one with the shiny knuckles) wound up like a pitcher about to throw a fastball, and–

–and his rolling eyes widened as they were suddenly looking down the barrel of the .38 Special revolver that Stooge had just shoved in his face. "Put him down," Stooge said in a strangely-calm voice. "Unless you want me to plant a slug right between your ball-bearing eyes, B-B Eyes."

The derby-hatted gangster didn't argue; he immediately let go of Mumbles – who dropped to the deck like a pile of wet laundry – and put up his hands. "Now ... now don't get crazy, Viller ... we ... we was only foolin', see ... nyahh ... it was just a joke, right fellahs?" His nervously rolling eyes besought the other two for support.

The Brow started to go for his Luger, but Stooge quickly redirected his aim. "Don't even think about it, Brow. Just do like B-B Eyes here and put your hands up where I can see 'em. I've got six bullets in this heater, and that's two for each of you. Including you, Pruneface."

Though furious, the Brow raised his hands; something about Stooge's expression told him the con artist wasn't bluffing. He grew even more annoyed when Pruneface cravenly moved to stand behind him, evidently thinking the Brow's bulk would make a good shield if Stooge started shooting. "This won't work, Viller," the Brow sneered. "You're only making things worse for yourself and Mumbles–"

He broke off speaking as Stooge pulled back the firing hammer with an audible_ click._ For the first time, a look of apprehension came into the Brow's eyes. "Uh ... like B-B Eyes was saying, we were only joking, that's all. Heh-heh. Where's your sense of humor...?"

"The day ain't over yet," said Stooge. "I'm still Captain, and as such, I'm confining you three jokers to your cabins for the rest of the day, starting now. G'wan, beat it," he added as they hesitated, "before I change my mind and drill you where you stand!"

Still with their hands in the air, the trio backed away, slowly at first. Then, as Stooge made a threatening gesture towards them with his gun, they all three turned and ignominiously scrambled back to their cabins. Only when he heard the third door slam did he finally lower his weapon. The other criminals – Flattop, Itchy, Oodles and the Mole – were silently staring at him with a newfound respect. At least, he _hoped_ that's why they were all gaping at him.

Returning the revolver to his inside-jacket pocket, Stooge shifted his attention back to Mumbles, who was still sprawled on the deck where he had landed after B-B Eyes had dropped him. "Can you stand up?" he asked.

Mumbles shook his head.

"Well, you're gonna have to try," Stooge grunted as he took hold of his accomplice's upper arms and attempted to raise him to his feet. But Mumbles's legs were like wet spaghetti and kept buckling under him. "You're not tryin' hard enough," Stooge complained, holding him up.

"Ican telpit," Mumbles whined.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you can't help it. Hang on, I think I can–" He bent down, allowing Mumbles to collapse across his broad shoulders; then with an effort he stood up again, supporting his crime-partner in a sort of fireman's carry. To keep him from sliding off, Stooge gripped of one of Mumbles's wrists, while his other hand held on to a leg. In this manner the two of them started back to their own cabin, Stooge walking slowly and Mumbles riding limply, his head hanging down next to his dangling free arm. The sight was not unlike that of a soldier carrying his wounded comrade from the battlefield.

As the four remaining gangsters began to disperse, a fifth figure appeared unexpectedly among them. Sketch Paree had actually woken up some time ago, but had decided to play possum while the recent developments unfolded. He stood up and rubbed the back of his head, which was still aching where Stooge had sapped him. When he was certain that the others were out of earshot, the Parisian cast a poisonous glance in the direction Stooge and Mumbles had gone, teeth clenched in an ice-cold rage.

"You 'ad best better watch your own back from now on, m'sieur Stooge Viller. _En garde!"_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Stooge was feeling unusually proud of himself for the way he had gotten the drop on the other three. Of course, he had a feeling that their troubles were far from over (and having forgotten all about Sketch Paree, he didn't even know the half of it). He did know that there would no doubt be some serious repercussions to that little confrontation, but at the moment, Stooge didn't care. Just the memory of the look on the Brow's face when he saw the revolver pointed at him, watching that big, bumpy-domed gorilla sweat when Stooge pulled the hammer back – it almost made it all seem worth while. Almost.

They had entered the cabin by this time. With Mumbles still draped over his shoulders, Stooge paused to lock the door behind them. As the old adage goes, being paranoid doesn't mean that somebody isn't out to get you. Just as he was about to dump Mumbles onto his bunk, he heard the latter say in an almost inaudible voice: "Stooj...?"

"What?"

"...m'zorry..."

_Sorry!_ Stooge thought bitterly. Did Mumbles even fully realize what he had to be sorry for? Was he sorry for having attempted to murder everyone (including Stooge)? Sorry that he hadn't succeeded? Sorry that the two of them were now most likely marked for death by at least three of their shipmates, thanks to what he had done? Stooge could think of a dozen angry and/or sarcastic retorts he could have made in response to Mumbles's pathetic apology.

But in the end, all he said was, "Ehh ... forget about it, pal."

Instead of roughly dumping him on the bunk (as Stooge had originally intended to do), he eased his friend off his shoulders and set him down gently. Even though he had been spared a few brutal (and probably fatal) beatings, Mumbles still looked like a thrashed scarecrow after a heavy rainstorm. Within seconds he had fallen asleep, snoring fitfully, having been too tired and weak to change out of his damp clothes.

Feeling rather exhausted himself, Stooge started to turn towards his own bunk, but hesitated as he took one last look at Mumbles. "Aw, what the heck..." he muttered, reaching for a blanket which he tossed over the dozing form of his partner in crime. At last he flopped down on the other side of the room, though he did not immediately fall asleep the way his accomplice had. Even though (and possibly because) he knew that Mumbles could not hear him, Stooge sighed and quietly said aloud: "Good to have you back, buddy ... I missed you, ya screwy little twit..."

* * *

_One could consider this to be the eye of the hurricane, a moment's respite before the storm resumes . . . ._


	18. Poisonous Plottings

**PART EIGHTEEN: Poisonous Plottings**

"So, what do you say, Flattop? Will you do it?"

Not long after being ordered to their cabins, the Brow and Pruneface decided to defy their "Captain's" command and stealthily left their quarters to call an impromptu meeting in the cabin shared by Flattop and B-B Eyes. While the flat-headed felon sat in a chair and disinterestedly cleaned his nails with the tip of a sharp dagger, the other three stood around him, trying to sway him to their cause.

"Come on, Flattop," the Brow was saying. "We all know you didn't cast your vote to spare Mumbles out of the goodness of your heart. And you saw how Stooge threatened us out there. Who knows, he may point his rod at _you_ next. He's as much of a menace as is Mumbles, and they both need to be eliminated."

"All we're asking you to do is to get rid of Stooge, see?" B-B Eyes put in. "You'll have a better chance than any of us, since he thinks you're on his side. After that, Mumbles will be no problem for the rest of us to deal with."

Flattop wiped the flat of the dagger's blade against an arm of the chair. "And in return, you're offering me...?"

"You'll get what would have been Stooge's portion of the treasure, in addition to your own share, of course. That's double what you would get otherwise. As for Mumbles's share, we'll divide that equally amongst all of us," Pruneface finished.

"So..." said Flattop, inspecting his fingernails, "...you're offering me part of a treasure that we haven't found yet – that we don't even know for certain exists – _after_ I make the hit. No, I don't think so. Dick Tracy once called me a screwball, and a screwball I may be, but just plain stupid I'm not. If you want an assassin, you'll have to pay me up front. In full."

"How much?" asked the Brow.

"One hundred grand, cash."

"Why, you miserable little–!"

"I wouldn't pay such a preposterous amount, even if I had that much money on me." snorted Pruneface.

Flattop shrugged. "Then go and kill him yourselves. I've got better things to do with my time."

The Brow made one last attempt to win him over. "But don't you feel the need for revenge? Mumbles double-crossed us, and Stooge is protecting him. Doesn't that bother you at all? What kind of a killer are you, anyway – ulp!" He broke off abruptly as the point of Flattop's dagger was suddenly less than an inch away from his Adam's apple, which bobbed a bit as the Brow swallowed hard.

"You know, Brow, you're beginning to annoy me..."

B-B Eyes looked uncomfortable (though not nearly as uncomfortable as the Brow at that moment). "Nyahh, I think we'd better leave him alone now. I've seen that look in his eyes before, see, and it's usually just when he's about to off someone. Let's go."

And they did, the Brow keeping one hand over his throat and muttering, "Creepy little cretin," under his breath once they were out of the room.

"So now we're back to square one," Pruneface commented sourly. "Any more clever ideas?"

"Yeah, I think I'm getting one now..." the lumpy-headed gangster replied. "Follow me to my cabin and we'll discuss it there. It'll be as easy as pie..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

About half an hour later, Stooge Viller was awakened by the sound of somebody pounding on the door of the cabin. "Who's there?" he asked, already reaching into his jacket for his gun.

"It's me, Cap'n," came Oodles's voice. "I brung you guys somethin' to eat."

Stooge glanced at Mumbles, who had likewise awoken at the noise. The blond hoodlum's dull blue eyes brightened at the thought of food; he was absolutely ravenous, and Stooge was feeling pretty hungry himself. But caution was in order; Stooge kept his .38 at the ready as he unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Sure enough, there stood Oodles, holding what appeared to be a large pie, freshly-baked, judging by the tantalizing aroma it was giving off. Oodles nearly dropped it when he saw Stooge's revolver. "Hey, don't point that thing at me!"

"Sorry, Oodles," Stooge pocketed his weapon as he opened the door wide to allow the massive criminal entrance into the cabin. "Can't be too careful right now. But you did help us out earlier today, so I guess you can be trusted." He made certain to re-lock the cabin door, though.

The steaming pie was set on a bunk-side table, and Mumbles's mouth began to water. So did Stooge's. As he set about cutting a couple of wedges with his penknife, Stooge noted that the pie appeared to be cherry. "This looks great!" he grinned, licking his lips. "Where'd you get it, Oodles? Did you make it yourself?"

"It was one of the pies we stole from the deli the night before we set sail," Oodles explained. "I just stuck it in the ship's microwave for a few seconds to heat it up."

"I'm surprised you weren't tempted to eat this yourself," said Stooge as he lifted out a slice and brought it over to his friend. "Okay, Mumbles, here's your first bite of food in days – open wide..."

"Oh, I _was_ tempted, to be sure," replied Oodles. "But the Brow made me promise not to eat any of it."

"How thoughtful of – WAIT A MINUTE!" Stooge snatched the pie wedge back just in time, as Mumbles's teeth clacked together on empty air. "What's the Brow got to do with this pie?"

"He told me to give it to yuh. Don't worry, he's not sore anymore – he told me to tell yuh that the pie was a peace offering."

"Oh, _really?"_ Stooge set the wedge down on the floor in front of a small hole in the base of the wall. Then he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Hey, Ratso – c'mon out. I've got somethin' for ya..."

The scent of the warm pie wafted into the hole, and within seconds a tiny, whiskered snout poked out, quivering excitedly as it detected the source of the odor. Then a small black rat scampered into the room, grabbed the piece of pie in its forepaws and began to nibble greedily. Half a minute passed, and just as Stooge was beginning to think that maybe he'd just wasted some food, the rodent suddenly stiffened, went into convulsions, then flopped over onto its back with all four paws in the air. One final twitch, and it was as dead as a doornail.

Stooge glared at Oodles. "Peace offering, huh? Looks more like a Rest in Peace offering to me!"

Oodles was literally sweating like a pig. There was no time for him to unlock the cabin door and escape. "Honest, Stooge – I didn't know that pie had rat poison in it! I swear it! Oh, no – _no!_ Put that down! Don't do it, Stooge! Don't,_ please!"_

* * *

_A word of warning – __things start to get violent in the next chapter..._


	19. The Mole Strikes!

**PART NINETEEN: The Mole Strikes!**

Stooge Viller approached Oodles threateningly, but it wasn't his gun that he brandished, it was the remainder of the poisoned pie. "I oughta paste you right in the mush with this..." he snarled. "...except that you're so dumb, you're probably telling the truth when you say you didn't know that the Brow must have spiked this pie. He's the one I'd _really_ like to feed this to. Stop cringing, you fathead – and unlock the door so I can get rid of this."

Oodles fumbled with the door handle, and finally got it open, hastily retreating onto the deck. Stooge stepped up to the railing and heaved the tainted pastry into the water, pie-plate and all. A small school of fish immediately swam up to gobble the "treat," and within seconds they were all floating upside-down.

Twiddling his fat fingers sheepishly, Oodles tried to apologize. "Sorry, Stooge ... uh, Cap'n ... I really did think that the Brow was bein' on the level when he said–"

"Just shaddup and scram already. And tell that bumpy-pated bozo he'll have to try harder than that if he wants to get rid of Mumbles and me." _What am I_ _saying?_ he suddenly realized. "On second thought, _don't_ tell him that!" Stooge yelled, but Oodles had already left.

Mumbles had a mournful expression on his face when Stooge came back into the cabin. That pie had looked _so_ good and had smelled _so _tempting, even though the stiff body of the rat in the middle of the floor served as a grim reminder of how deadly it had been. After kicking the rodent's corpse out the door and over the side of the ship, Stooge re-locked the door. A low growl rumbled in the pit of his stomach, and he heard an echo coming from the bunk that Mumbles was lying in. "M'zohungry, Stooj," his partner moaned.

"Hang in there, buddy, I'm hungry too," Stooge replied. "Just sit tight; I'll try to sneak into the galley and see what I can get for us–"

Three sharp raps were heard on the cabin door.

"Now what?" Repeating his earlier performance, Stooge cautiously cracked the door open, just wide enough to see Itchy standing outside, a hoop-handled pot with a long spoon in it hanging from one arm. "Hi, fellahs," he said with a grin, scratching the back of his head. "Thought the two of you might like some of this..."

"And just what is that?" sneered Stooge. "Strychnine soup, I suppose? Pruneface's own special recipe, which he sent you here with as another rest in peace offering? How stupid does he think I am?" And before the startled Itchy could react, Stooge had snatched the pot and chucked the whole thing over the railing. And again, another group of fish swam up to devour what appeared to be some sort of stew rather than soup. Stooge waited for them to go belly-up ... but it didn't happen. The fish merely swam away, full and satisfied.

"Are you_ crazy,_ Viller?" Itchy exclaimed. "That was a good batch of beef stew you just wasted! And Pruneface didn't make it – _I _did! He may be my associate, but that doesn't mean I trust him completely. How stupid do _you_ think _I_ am? Sheesh, that's the last time I'll ever try to do a good deed..." And he stormed away in vexation, scratching himself irritably as he went.

For a moment, Stooge was too dumbfounded to respond. The delicious odor of the vanished stew lingered in the air, as though taunting him. "Itchy, wait! Come back! I'm sorry..." But it was too late; the bespectacled thug had gone, and Stooge realized that he had made a colossal blunder. Not only had he and Mumbles missed out on a good meal, they had most likely just lost a valuable ally as well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"How's the plan going, Brow?"

"Great! We've really got old Stooge rattled, and I think Itchy may be ready to join our side."

"Nyahh, if he's feeling shook up now, just wait'll he gets a load of the next phase of our plan, see?"

"Yes, but we must be patient. Let a few more hours pass, and then we should be able to catch them off guard..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Too nervous to leave the cabin now, Stooge dug though his briefcase and found some "emergency rations" – small packets of crackers and cheese that he had swiped from the refrigerator in the room back at the Hotel Opera. (How long ago that seemed!) He also found an assortment of tiny liquor bottles obtained from the same place, but these he left strictly alone; it would be a long time before either he or Mumbles would feel like getting sauced again. Assuming they both lived that long...

There were only four cheese and cracker packets. Stooge tossed three of them to Mumbles and kept one for himself. His generosity was somewhat feigned; Stooge really wasn't feeling very hungry anymore, not since the incident with Itchy had occurred.

Finally breaking his 50-hour fast, Mumbles wolfed his meager meal, wasting not so much as a single cracker crumb, then looked around hopefully for more. When he realized that there wasn't any more, he sighed, leaned back in his bunk and soon fell asleep again.

The crackers were salty, and Stooge felt thirsty after eating his single packet. He wondered if he dared sneak out of the cabin in search of some water, and possibly some more food as well. But that would mean leaving the slumbering Mumbles alone and unprotected, for the cabins could only be locked from the inside. And of course, Stooge was worried about his own skin as well – what if the others all decided to gang up on him as soon as he came out on deck? The cabin, it seemed, was the only safe haven – but it had also become a sort of prison cell.

_Tap-tap-tap_ came a soft knocking at the door.

_Not again!_ thought Stooge as he went through the now-familiar drill. "Who is it, and what have you brought this time?"

"It's the Mole," replied the Mole, "an' I brung some ice-water." His voice sounded strangely subdued, almost a monotone.

Not wishing to alienate another ally, Stooge put his gun away and unlocked the door. Outside, night had fallen and the Mole was standing in the darkness, though there was no mistaking his short, dumpy, humpbacked form silhouetted in the doorway. He was carrying a large, wide-mouthed pewter jug as Stooge ushered him inside the cabin and once more closed and locked the door.

"If you don't mind..." Stooge said curtly as he took the jug from the Mole and began to examine its contents, not noticing the vacant look in the water-bearer's eyes. The liquid within the jug looked like water, smelled like water, and – as Stooge summoned enough courage to dip a finger into it and give it a tentative lick – tasted like water. When he fished out one of the ice cubes and held it up to the lamplight, it appeared to be clean and clear. He glanced at Mumbles, but his friend seemed to be deeply asleep, no doubt exhausted from his trials of the past two days. Stooge set the jug down on the small table by his bunk, so he could reach it easily upon waking.

"Thanks, Mole. It's good to know that there's still somebody left on this ship that we can tru–_AWRK!!!"_

The attack was as savage as it was unexpected. The Mole had pounced on him from behind, and Stooge's breath was cut off abruptly as two powerful hairy hands clutched his windpipe. At first he tried to throw him off, but the Mole had already locked his legs around Stooge's middle and was clinging like the grim death he was attempting to deal.

After blindly punching at him, which only caused his assailant to tighten his grip, Stooge desperately sought to pry those iron-like fingers out of his throat, to no avail. Nor could he draw his gun; the Mole's leg-lock prevented him from reaching inside his jacket pocket. Stumbling to his knees, unable to yell for help, he just managed to pound his fist twice against the side of Mumbles's bunk before the darkness closed in.

The last thing Stooge Viller heard was the Mole giggling dementedly and gibbering, "Mole's hands are very strong, yes, _very_ strong from digging ... HEE-HEE-HEE! Struggle all you want – no one breaks the grip of the Mole!"

* * *

_Just thought I'd take a moment to say that I appreciate the hits and especially the comments that this story has received so far -- yes, from BOTH of you! ;-) Hey, two is a lot better than none...._


	20. A Bad Dream and a Living Nightmare

**PART TWENTY: A Bad Dream and a Living Nightmare**

Due to the misspent life he had led, Mumbles did not usually have particularly pleasant dreams when he slept, and the current one he was having seemed to be even worse than usual. It began with him being back in the ocean, clinging to the ruptured life raft, only this time there were no rescuers in sight. All alone, he sank down to his dismal, watery end ... except that it wasn't quite the end after all. Mumbles found himself caught in a sort of maelstrom that sucked him down, down, down into a dark hole at the bottom of the sea. Within that hole, the water drained away and he felt like he was falling through air in the darkness, plummeting ever downward towards a strange and terrible light that was rising up to meet him.

And Mumbles knew with a sickening certainty just where he was headed when he realized that the light was a blazing sea of fire, and he heard the wails of the damned and understood that he was about to join them. Right where he was going to land, a smirking devil had placed a bubbling, lava-filled cauldron with his name on it. "Welcome," leered the Evil One. "We've been expecting you..."

Unable to stop or slow his descent, Mumbles plunged into the searing cauldron while the Devil roared with laughter and hit him twice over the head with a pitchfork when he tried to climb out. At the second blow, Mumbles abruptly woke from his nightmare, sitting bolt upright in his cabin bunk, his hair standing on end, gasping and sweating and telling himself: _Justa dream, itwuzjus tadream!_

And yet, part of the dream still seemed to be going on, for he could even now hear demoniacal laughter right there in the cabin, plus the sound of somebody choking and gurgling as though they were drowning, or ... _or being strangled!_ Mumbles recoiled in horror at the sight of Stooge Viller, blue-faced and tongue lolling, going down with a maniacally-grinning Mole on top of him. The latter had both hands wrapped around his crime partner's neck, squeezing like he was trying to snap it, eyes blazing and whirling more wildly than those of B-B Eyes ever had. In a flash, Mumbles seized the first thing he could reach – which happened to be the pewter jug of ice-water – and with all his strength he swung it over his head and crowned the Mole with it.

The wide, open end of the jug came down with such force that it completely covered the Mole's ugly head, drenched him with freezing water and dropped several ice cubes down his shirt collar. The results were immediate: the Mole let go of Stooge and began to writhe around on the cabin floor, frantically trying to remove the metal jug from his head. Mumbles kicked him out of the way before kneeling to check on Stooge, who was gasping mightily even though he seemed to have fainted. His regular color was slowly beginning to return, and Mumbles rubbed an ice cube on his friend's forehead to help bring him round.

Luckily for Stooge, he had a rather thick neck, and this had prevented the Mole from doing any serious harm other than cutting off his oxygen supply and some of the circulation to his head while he had been throttling him. The return of both, plus the cold melted water dripping down his face soon revived him, and the first thing he saw was Mumbles bending over him with a look of concern in his eyes. "Thanks, pal," Stooge managed to pant. "I thought ... I thought I was done for ... Where's the Mole?"

Mumbles jerked a thumb at the struggling, jug-headed figure by the cabin door. "Helb, helb, I cad breaf!" came a muffled cry from inside the pitcher.

"Well, well, look who's complaining that he can't breathe!" Stooge said with acid sarcasm as he stood up and drew his revolver. Mumbles likewise found his own handgun and trained it on the thrashing Mole, waiting for a signal from Stooge to open fire. However, his crime buddy shook his head. "Not yet – that's too quick. Let him suffocate a bit first..."

As mentioned before, the Mole's hands really were very strong, and it was this strength that enabled him to finally free his head from the metal jug, which yielded with a loud _pop_ like an oversized champagne cork. He had likewise gone blue in the face, either from the lack of air, the coldness of the ice water or both. "Brrrr!" he shuddered, shaking his head like a wet animal and spraying droplets all over. He still had the jug in his upraised hands. And when he saw that both Mumbles and Stooge were pointing their guns at him, he dropped the jug but kept his arms up in the air. "W-what's goin' on? Stooge? Mumbles? How – how did I get here...?"

"Don't play dumber than usual!" Stooge hissed through clenched teeth. "You know darn well you just tried to murder me. Before we plug you, Mole, tell me one thing – how much did they bribe you to do it?"

The Mole was shivering, and it wasn't just from having been doused with ice-water. "No ... no! I didn't! I never! I don't even know what you're talking about!" He now bore very little resemblance to the cackling, psychopathic fiend he had been only a few minutes ago. His little eyes were wide with terror and his voice rose to near-hysteria as he begged, "Please, don't kill me! I don't remember doin' nothin'!"

Stooge frowned; he had expected the Mole to make excuses and blame somebody else, like the Brow, for making him do it. This flat-out denial of his actions was puzzling – it reminded him of how Mumbles could not seem to remember why he had attempted to blow up the _Dutch Master._ "Is there some sort of outbreak of temporary insanity makin' the rounds on this ship?" he wondered out loud, with a sidelong glance at Mumbles. To the Mole, he asked, "What's the last thing you _do_ remember?"

"I ... wait ... I think ... I was with Sketch Paree, in our cabin. He was mutterin' somethin' about an egg on the back of his head, and then he looked at me kinda funny-like, and acted as if he had somethin' in his eye. So I took a look in his eye to see what was botherin' him, but I couldn't see anythin' ... I couldn't see anythin' at all ... and ... and the next thing I know, I'm in here with a jug of freezin' cold water stuck on my head, and you guys wantin' to shoot me!" He sounded on the brink of tears as he spoke this last bit.

* * *

_There's more violence to come in the next chapter... _


	21. Mutiny!

**PART TWENTY-ONE: Mutiny!**

Mumbles seemed skeptical of the Mole's story, but Stooge Viller sighed and actually pocketed his revolver. "Okay, Mole, you can lower your hands now. Put your gun away, Mumbles – I've figured out what happened. I'd heard that Sketch Paree used to be a hypnotist. Took lessons from one Yogee Yamma, if I'm not mistaken. He must have put the Mole in a trance and ordered him to murder us both."

"Sketch did _that?"_ gulped the Mole. "...I mean, I guess he could have done such a thing, but that's pretty low, even for him. Gosh, I might've been killed!" Then, as Stooge and Mumbles both glared daggers at him, he hastily amended, "I mean, I might have killed one or both of you! I'm ... I'm sorry, fellahs, really I am. I'm still on you guys's side. Is ... isn't there anythin' I can do to help?"

Stooge shook his head. "No, there isn't. We'll let you off this time, Mole, since you did manage to get Mumbles's ticker going again yesterday." (Mumbles looked startled at this, but said nothing.) "But don't even try coming back here anymore. If Sketch hypnotized you once, he'll do it again. And I don't care if you come back carrying a platter of filet mignon – we're not letting you in, understand?"

The Mole nodded, looking relieved, though also a bit crestfallen at this pronouncement. "Um ... well ... I–I guess I'll go, now. G'bye, fellahs. Uh ... I hope everythin' turns out all right for you..."

"Fat chance of that," muttered Stooge as he once more locked the cabin door after the Mole exited. Turning towards his partner in crime, he said wearily, "Let's face it, Mumbles – we're in a real spot. We can't get off this ship. We can't even safely leave this cabin. And we can't trust _anybody_ anymore. And I dunno 'bout you, but all this is makin' a nervous wreck outta me. This treasure hunt cruise was supposed to be a fun deal, but now..." He rubbed his bruised and aching neck. "No amount of treasure is worth _this!"_

"Gettah oldayersel, Stooj," Mumbles tried to reassure him. "We ainlik tyet!"

Not sharing his friend's optimism, Stooge replied, "We may not be licked yet, but unless some miracle occurs and soon, we will be. The way I see it, we got two choices: stay in this blankety-blank cabin till we waste away, or go out and have a final showdown with the Brow and the rest, and hopefully take a few of them with us before we're gunned down."

"Therzgottabeanudderway!"

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours passed as the night wore on. And then:

"What are they doing now, Brow?"

"Sleeping like babies. Their light's still on, but I could hear 'em both snoring through the door, sawing enough wood to build a log cabin."

"Then it's time. You've got your lock-picking tools, B-B Eyes?"

"Nyahh, I never leave home without 'em, see? Let's go..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

While Mumbles had returned to his bunk, Stooge had remained standing in one corner of the room, facing the door. He'd had an uneasy feeling that something even more terrible was going to happen before the night was over, and knew that if he lay down on his own bunk, he wouldn't be able to pull his gun very quickly. But soon he had sunk to a sitting position, and then his head drooped forward over his knees as he eventually nodded off. It had been days since he'd gotten more than a few hours of sleep. And then the dream began...

Like Mumbles, Stooge rarely had pleasant visions when he slept, and this one was no exception. He saw his wife (whom he thought was long dead) and a little girl that he guessed was his daughter, even though she had only been an infant the last time he had seen her. He started to approach, holding his arms out as though he wanted to embrace them both, but at the sight of him, mother and daughter screamed and fled.

_Come back!_ he cried,_ Don't be afraid of me!_ But they only ran all the faster, reaching a dilapidated apartment building with a single door, which they slammed and locked behind them. Stooge pounded on the door, calling _Let me in! I won't hurt you!_ From within he heard his wife's voice: _Go away, you mobster _– _you MONSTER! I never want to see you again! _And his daughter's: _I hate you, Father!_ And Stooge began crying. _I'll ... I'll change! I'll turn over a new leaf _–_ I promise...!_

Then he was roughly being prodded awake, and the images of the dream blew away like smoke from a cigarette, never to be remembered. For what he saw upon waking was another nightmare – less tragic, perhaps, but definitely more deadly. The Brow and B-B Eyes were standing over him, with gats in their right hands and blackjacks in their lefts. Nearby, Pruneface was holding his .45 pistol to the head of the terrified Mumbles, who was also being restrained by Sketch Paree. The Parisian had clamped one white-gloved hand over the blond hood's mouth to keep him from squawking, for he had woken up before Stooge.

"Mornin', Viller," said the Brow with a grin. "It may not be daylight yet, but we've already drawn straws to see who today's Captain is gonna be, and guess what? You're lookin' at him. Me – Captain Brow! So I'll trouble you to turn over the treasure map ... no, don't bother reaching for it, just keep those hands in the air. I'll help myself." He pulled the map out of Stooge's jacket, along with his revolver, stuffing them both into his own coat pocket. "And now, Mister Ex-Captain," he continued, "you and your little pal are about to get yours!"

Both B-B Eyes and the Brow raised their blackjacks high over their heads, and then–

"HOLD EVERYTHING!" Stooge bawled, thrusting his arms out to either side in a gesture of halting. Instinctively, all of the villains within the cabin froze in place, including Stooge, who suddenly realized that he did not know what to do next. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the Brow, B-B Eyes, Pruneface and Sketch Paree all burst out laughing, while Mumbles rolled his eyes.

"Whatcha gonna do, Stooge?" B-B Eyes got out between chortles. "Call up Dick Tracy on your two-way wrist radio?"

"Go ahead, Viller," the Brow said mockingly, "Say the words – come on, say them. You know which ones..."

Aware that he had just made a complete fool of himself, Stooge held on to the forlorn hope that maybe if he continued with the gag, the others would literally laugh themselves to death. Bringing his left fist near to his face, he slowly spoke into his wristwatch the words that he knew the Brow wanted to hear him say: "Six-two ... and even ... over and–"

"–Out!" finished the Brow, as he and B-B Eyes simultaneously brought their blackjacks down on Stooge's skull.

_"Touché!"_ Sketch Paree exclaimed gleefully as Stooge wilted to the floor. And then the Parisian shrieked in agony as Mumbles sank his teeth right through his white-gloved hand, hard enough to produce a satisfying crunch of bones. As Sketch let go of him to nurse his wounded fingers, Mumbles seized him by one arm and swung him around, slamming him forcefully into Pruneface, who was just about to shoot the blond hoodlum in the head. The pistol went off, but his aim had been spoiled by Paree's hurtling body, and the bullet zinged upward into the ceiling lamp, exploding the lightbulb and plunging the room into total darkness.

* * *

_Get set for some real punch-'em-up action in the next chapter!_


	22. Time Wounds All Heels

**PART TWENTY-TWO: Time Wounds All Heels**

"Don't shoot anymore in here!" shouted the Brow. "You may hit one of us–OOF!" Guided by the sound of the Brow's voice, Mumbles took the opportunity to sock him in the stomach – hard. Doubled up from the blow, the Brow managed to lash out with his own fist, but the resulting yell of pain indicated that he had just slugged B-B Eyes instead.

For the next couple of minutes, utter pandemonium held sway. Knowing that Stooge was somewhere on the floor and therefore relatively out of harm's way, Mumbles allowed himself to go totally berserk, flailing back and forth across the darkened room, kicking, punching and/or gouging whomever was unfortunate enough to get in his path. He wasn't just fighting for his life – he was enraged. The memory of what had happened on the night of the party had finally come back to him, the moment he'd heard Sketch Paree say _"Touché!"_ He remembered the guitar being smashed over his head and the derisive laughter that had followed, adding insult to injury. Now it was payback time!

The other villains all started yelling frantically at one another in the dark:

"Who's got the rope? Somebody grab that maniac and tie him up!"

"I've got his leg!"

"Zat is MY leg, m'sieur!"

"OW! Watch it!"

"Cut it out – that's ME you're tyin' up, see!"

"Y'dir tirats! #$^&%*!!!"

"There! I heard him! He's over there–" (whack) "AAH! My nose!"

"For screamin' out loud, somebody turn on a light!"

And then, somebody did. Specifically, Pruneface, who had wisely kept to the walls while the blind fracas had been going on, edged his way slowly around the room until he eventually encountered a table lamp, which he immediately switched on. Most of the thugs in the cabin now sported black eyes and bloody noses. Mumbles, as yet untouched, was revealed in the lamplight, his fists clenched and his eyes wild.

"Aha! Now we can see ya, you mealy-mouthed moron!" exclaimed B-B Eyes, who was right next to him. And then he said "YOWCH!" as Mumbles quickly rammed two fingers into his rolling eyes, for the adrenaline was still surging through his veins, and he wasn't through fighting yet. "Nowyuhcant!" he snickered, then turned to face the others defiantly. "Who wanzum?" he snarled, waving his fists in the air. "Cumman geddit!"

They came. And although Mumbles fought like a crazed wildcat, it was four against one, and an adrenaline rush will only do so much. The Brow (who was twice Mumbles's size) managed to knock the wind out of him with a roundhouse punch to the belly, and the fight ended very quickly after that. Then the heavy rope was applied, and Mumbles was bound hand and foot. He continued to squirm and struggle so much that they kept wrapping him in more and more rope until he could no longer move. Sketch Paree took the last remaining bit of rope and thrust it viciously into Mumbles's mouth, tying the ends in a knot behind his neck, gagging him.

Even Pruneface found this to be rather excessive. "Don't you think that putting a gag on _Mumbles_ is a bit redundant?"

"Zat is no gag, m'sieur," Sketch explained. "It is ze muzzle, to keep 'im from biting me again. Just look at what 'e did to me!" He held out his bleeding hand for the others to view – though to his annoyance, they found it to be quite amusing.

"You'd better see a doctor as soon as we get back to the mainland, Paree," chuckled the Brow. "Bitten by a mad Mumbles – you may end up with hydrophobia if you're not careful. I don't think that Mumbles here has had his rabies shots," he added, patting the blond hood on the head as though he were a dog.

"Nyahh, _I'll_ give him a few shots!" gritted B-B Eyes. "Poke me in the eyes, will you? Take that!" Seizing the trussed and helpless Mumbles by the hair, he swung his other fist brutally. "And that! And this, see..?"

"Don't knock him out, B-B Eyes," the Brow cautioned. "And don't blind him, either. I want him to be conscious and able to see what we have planned for him and his buddy."

"It's okay," the derby-hatted mobster assured him. "I only wanted to blacken those baby-blues of his, see? ... There, now they look more like mine!"

"Speaking of Stooge," said Pruneface, "shouldn't we tie him up as well?"

But they were unable to do so, on account of having used up all the rope on Mumbles. The Brow bent over the prone figure of Stooge Viller on the floor. "It won't be necessary," he replied. "After the double-helping of eggs we served on his dome, he'll be out cold for hours. C'mon, let's get these two chuckleheads out of here. You guys can carry Mumbles – I'll handle Viller myself."

"You're the boss, Captain Brow," B-B Eyes replied with a snappy salute. He took hold of Mumbles's bound shoulders while Pruneface lifted up his feet. Meanwhile, in a respectable show of strength, the Brow hefted Stooge (who weighed far more than Mumbles did) over his shoulder like a sack of garbage. Sketch Paree, still favoring his bruised and bitten hand, used his uninjured one to open the door for them.

Outside the cabin, all was quiet and still. Too still, Mumbles realized, as it suddenly occurred to him that the ship was no longer moving. The red stars that had filled his vision after B-B Eyes had punched his lamps slowly cleared until he could see the actual stars in the night sky shining down from above, cold and impassive, yet beautiful at the same time. He tried to swallow through the rope in his mouth as he guessed that this was probably one of the last sights that he would ever see...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a very small island, more of a sandbar, really, with nothing except a lone palm tree growing in the middle of it. Two bodies were dumped unceremoniously upon the tiny beach, and then the wooden lifeboat with the Brow and B-B Eyes in it rowed back to the stationary _Dutch Master_. "And that," the Brow said cheerfully, "is how you break up a beautiful friendship."

"I gotta hand it to ya, Brow," B-B Eyes replied, "Shooting or drowning would have been too good for 'em, after all the trouble they've given us. This is much more satisfying. After a couple of days, those two will be hating each other's guts, and will probably end up killing one another."

"Maybe after we find the treasure, we can stop by on the return trip," mused the Brow. "Not to pick 'em up, of course, but just to see which one, if either, is still alive. I'll bet you a ten-spot that Stooge ends up croaking Mumbles first."

B-B Eyes rubbed his still-aching namesakes thoughtfully. "Nyahh, I dunno about that, see? I'd put my money on Mumbles. That little rat fights _dirty!"_

The Brow chuckled at this. "Don't we all, B-B Eyes, don't we all...?"

* * *

_Don't they all, indeed..._


	23. Marooned

**PART TWENTY-THREE: Marooned**

The soft slap of the oars against the water gradually receded into the distance. Five minutes after it could no longer be heard, Stooge Viller opened one eye and whispered, "Have they gone?"

He heard a reply of some sort from Mumbles, but it was even less distinct than usual. Slowly, Stooge brought his hand up to his noggin, wincing at the twin lumps he encountered there. Still, he thought, he was lucky to be alive; having a thick skull definitely came in handy sometimes. With a grunt, he rolled himself over and looked around.

"Aww, Mumbles–!" Stooge shook his head when he saw the sorry state his crime partner was in. "Geeze, did those guys use enough rope, or what?" He began to undo the knots with his fingers, but they were tight and it took awhile. "Looks like they gave you a matching pair of shiners as well," he commented, noticing Mumbles's blackened and swollen eyes. "What a bunch of soreheads. And what a sore head they gave me," he added with a groan, pausing in his work to rub his scalp again. "I think I may have a concussion..."

_"Rrnghrh!"_

"All right, hang on, I've almost got it..."

The knot behind his neck finally came loose, and Mumbles spat out the rope, spluttering angrily, "Sumhel pyuwer! Hadda fitem albimysel..."

"Well, you must have put up one heck of a fight, for them to have tied you up like this," Stooge replied. "I'm sorry I missed out on it. I would have loved to have planted my fist in the Brow's face, but I never had the chance..." He continued to help Mumbles out of his rope overcoat, and when that was done, he handed his friend a handkerchief. "Here, use this to wipe off your mouth – you've got some blood on your lip. Someone must have socked you in the jaw, or something."

"Uh-uh," said Mumbles as he accepted the handkerchief. "Tain mine. Musbe SkechPree's, frmwen Ibittim..."

Stooge tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. "You _bit_ Sketch Paree?"

"Yeh," he answered with a wry grin as he blotted his lip. "Stupidfrg puttisando vermymouf, soIbittim."

"Serves that bloodsucker right." Stooge grimaced, recalling how Sketch had hypnotized the Mole into nearly choking Stooge to death, not to mention the shot he had taken at Mumbles, which had led to the latter's near-drowning the day before.

"Yudunno thaffovit," Mumbles added, no longer grinning.

"Oh? What else did he do?"

Finally, Mumbles was able to tell his partner in crime about what had happened the night of the party. When he had finished, Stooge was silent for a little while. At last he said, "Well, I guess I can't blame you for being ticked off after Sketch bashed you with the guitar, but don't you think that attempting to blow up the ship and everyone in it Including-Your-Best-Pal-Yours-Truly was a _little_ overdoin' it?"

Sheepishly, Mumbles nodded. "Ized Iwuzorry. Wutmor kinIzay? Idhadtu muchtadrin..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you said you were sorry already, and that you'd had too much to drink. And I said to forget about it – and I meant it. Though I'm glad to have learned what brought it on, at long last ... I was beginning to think that you had just gone stark raving cuckoo for no reason that night."

Mumbles looked away and let out a long sigh. "Annow wermroond, anwilnevr gettenyovthe treasure..."

Amazingly, these words caused Stooge to smile broadly. "Cheer up, Mumbles," he said as he reached into his jacket sleeve. "We may be marooned, and may never get to see Captain Cannonsmoke's treasure,_ but_–" He pulled out a scroll of taped-together parchment, unrolling it before his friend's astounded eyes to reveal the treasure map. "–neither the Brow nor anybody else will ever get to see it, either."

"But – butIsaw thBrow takit frmyu!"

"He _did_ take it from me, along with this..." Stooge reached into his other sleeve and produced his .38 revolver. "...an' while he was carryin' me over his shoulder, I took 'em back. Stooge Viller, King of Pickpockets strikes again!"

For a moment, Mumbles was totally speechless. Then he began to chuckle, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Stooge likewise began to laugh, and soon they were both slapping each other's backs, cackling and howling like a couple of hyenas.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Back on board the_ Dutch Master,_ there was howling of a different kind:

"WHERE IS IT?!"

The Brow searched frantically through his belongings, having turned his coat practically inside-out, tearing up the pockets in an attempt that was as frenzied as it was futile to find the missing map. He ripped his bunk apart, yanked all of the drawers out of the bureau and scattered their contents every which way, generally making a shambles out of the cabin he shared with Oodles.

Speaking of whom, the corpulent criminal was crouching apprehensively in the doorway, staring at his crime partner as though he had gone mad. "Wh-what's goin' on, Brow?" Oodles stammered, backing away another step. "What have yuh lost? Maybe I can help yuh find it–"

_"I haven't lost anything!"_ the Brow raved, nearly foaming at the mouth. "Get outta here, and keep your yap shut, understand?!"

"Sure, Brow – uh, Cap'n – sir –" He retreated from the room as quickly as his short, chubby legs could carry him. The sounds of violent vandalism could still be heard coming from the cabin as Oodles hastily ducked into the galley.

When there was nothing left to destroy, the Brow paused amidst the wreckage of the room, panting heavily and fearfully. Without that map, he knew his life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel, once the others found out about it. And find out they would, the next day when the time came to change Captains once more. He had only until the end of the day to locate it, or he was sunk.

Then, as the sound of the ship's engine suddenly eased off and died, and from outside the cabin came shouts of "We made it!" "Look!" "That must be the island!" he realized that he didn't even have that long...

* * *

_Yeah, `bout time something bad started happening to the Brow for a change, don't you think...?_


	24. The Turning of the Tide

**PART TWENTY-FOUR: The Turning of the Tide**

Though the islet they were marooned on was quite small, Stooge Viller could see a much larger one in the distance, visible now that the dawn's light had revealed it. This larger island was perhaps a quarter of a mile away across the water, and it appeared to be lush with tropical greenery, unlike their current location. "Look over there, Mumbles," Stooge said, pointing to his discovery. "If we could make it to that bigger island, we might have a better chance at surviving – there may be coconuts, bananas, maybe even a source of fresh water."

Mumbles shook his head dolefully. "Icantzwim..."

"I _know_ you can't swim," Stooge replied with some annoyance. "Don't you think it's time you learned how? I suppose I could teach you. It's not like we've got much of anything else to do while we're stuck on this lousy little sandbar. But right now, I'm feeling pretty hungry..."

The lone palm tree growing on the tiny islet had a single coconut attached to it. Stooge tried to knock it down with a piece of driftwood, but it was beyond his reach. He was too heavy and clumsy to climb the tree trunk, but the lighter and more nimble Mumbles could. After hacking at the thick stem with his penknife for several minutes, he managed to free the husky fruit, which fell to the sand – narrowly missing Stooge, who had been standing almost a little too close. "Warn me next time, willya?" he grumbled, even though they both knew that there wouldn't be a next time, since new coconuts would not sprout overnight.

They both attacked the coconut with their respective pocketknives, blunting the blades in their attempts at getting the thing open. There were no rocks or stones on the islet to pound it with, and driftwood was too fragile to use as a hammering tool. When the knives failed, they tried using their gun-handles to batter away at the hull, but to no avail (though at least neither one of them managed to kill themselves by having the guns accidentally go off while doing this). Finally, in utter frustration, Stooge told Mumbles to stand back, took aim and shot the coconut with his revolver. And with a deafening _crack,_ the shell split in two.

Whooping in triumph, they each pounced on a half. Some of the precious milk had spilled out when the coconut fell apart, but there was enough left in both sides for a mouthful apiece. The sweet liquid tasted like the nectar of the gods to the parched scallywags, who then fell to prying out and gobbling the delectable white flesh of the coconut. Stooge finished his meal first and stole a glance at Mumbles, wondering whether his accomplice hadn't gotten a larger portion than he had. But before he could voice his suspicions, he noticed something else that drove all such greedy and selfish thoughts from his mind:

"Hey, Mumbles..." Stooge began, staring in all directions, "...am I imagining it, or does this island seem bigger now than it did before?"

With his mouth full of coconut, Mumbles looked around, observing the same thing his friend did – that the islet now definitely sported a larger and longer expanse of beach than it had an hour ago, when they had first arrived. "S'datide..." said Mumbles, after swallowing his mouthful. "Datidez goinout."

"Yeah, that must be it – the tide's goin' out ... and look what's comin' up!" He pointed excitedly to a finger of sandy ground at one end of the islet – the end that was closest to the larger island. As the minutes passed, a natural causeway formed, growing longer and wider as it extended like a bridge towards the greater piece of ground. "This is the break we've been waiting for!" Stooge exclaimed as he picked up his jacket and rose to his feet to watch the tide continue to go out. "Guess I won't have to teach you how to swim after all. Though for your own good, you still should learn..."

Mumbles gathered up his sport coat, keeping a grip on the coconut's half-shell as he did so, even though the inside of it was now clean of meat. He also picked up a slim piece of driftwood and some strands of seaweed. Stooge gazed at him curiously. "What d'you want with all that junk?"

"Jussomthin' tukeepme bizywhil we'rewaitin..." Mumbles answered as he began carving one end of the coconut husk as best he could with his blunt penknife.

By the time the tide had gone out completely, Mumbles had constructed what appeared to be a sort of banjo, with the driftwood inserted into the coconut shell and the seaweed strands serving as the strings. Stooge rolled his eyes. "Trust you to be thinking of music at a time like this. But I don't see how you'll ever be able to play a tune on that thing."

"Tmay cummin handylatr," was Mumbles's cryptic reply.

Stooge shrugged. "Whatever. Anyways, let's get going – the tide won't stay low forever..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once again, the wooden lifeboats were lowered from the port side of the anchored _Dutch Master._ This time there were several of them, each containing a pair of rowing ruffians. The one with the Brow and Oodles in it (which barely remained above the water due to the tremendous weight of the latter) was in front, the Brow pulling at the oars like a man possessed, his comrade watching him with worried eyes behind his bangs. With a sudden jolt, they ran aground on the beach, and both of them pitched forward and tumbled from the boat. Hoots of derision came from the other rowboats at the sight of this. "Some Captain!" jeered Flattop.

B-B Eyes, who was in the same boat as Flattop, glared suspiciously at the Brow. "What's with that guy and his mood swings?" he muttered. "Earlier this morning, he was smug and completely full of himself after we got rid of Stooge and Mumbles, see? Nyahh, but now look at him – jittery as a rabbit in a dog show. There's somethin' fishy goin' on..."

"Are yuh all right, Brow?" Oodles asked as he attempted to help his partner get up after their spill. It was a question he had been meaning to ask even before the mishap with the rowboat occurred.

"I'm fine – and don't touch me!" the Brow snapped, slapping away Oodles's proffered helping hand.

The enormously fat felon pulled his arm back, stinging in more ways than one. "Gee whiz, Brow ... we're still pals, ain't we?" he asked plaintively. But his associate was ignoring him now, and looked like he was contemplating making a bolt for the jungle. By this time, however, the other rowboats had arrived on the beach, and the remaining six gangsters were already forming a half-circle around the Brow and Oodles.

And then, Pruneface asked the question that the Brow had been dreading: "All right, 'Captain' – where is the treasure map?"

Sweat pearled on every ridge in the Brow's forehead. "I ... I ..." he stammered – and then he exploded. _"Somebody stole it from me!_ One of us here is a traitor! And until it's found, you're _all_ under suspicion!"

But the Brow's bluff and bluster did not fool anybody. "I think we all know who the traitor is..." Flattop said coldly as he and B-B Eyes both drew their automatics. Pruneface and Itchy did the same. So did Sketch Paree. The Mole did not immediately pull out his gun, but instead began flexing his hirsute hands, and the look in his eyes started to resemble the one that he'd had when he'd attempted to strangle Stooge Viller the day before. Except that this time he was not under hypnosis.

The Brow put up his hands, knowing that any attempt to draw his own rod at this point would only earn him an instant shower of hot lead. "N-no..." he quavered. "You can't do this. You're making a mistake, all of you!" He glanced wildly at Oodles. "Do something, you great oaf! I'm about to be shot!"

Oodles seemed to struggle with his loyalties for several seconds. Then he shook his head and stepped away. "So long, Brow," he said in a voice heavy with regret. "It ... it was swell workin' with yuh ... while it lasted..."

"Et tu, Oodles?" the Brow whispered in disbelief.

"Oh, don't worry – I'm not gonna help them shoot yuh, or anythin' like that. I'll just ... look the other way..."

"Thanks a _heap!"_

* * *

_It seems the tide has turned in more ways than one . . . .__  
_


	25. The Treasure, At Last?

**PART TWENTY-FIVE: The Treasure, At Last?**

"This is your final chance, Brow," said Pruneface, leveling his Colt .45 pistol at the latter's horrified eyes. "If you can't produce the treasure map by the time I count to three..."

"I told you, I don't have it anymore!" the Brow fairly screamed, still holding his hands up in the air. "Go back to the ship and look for it – it may be there. I'll stay here–"

"One..."

"Pruneface, no! I swear, I don't know where it is! You can search me, if you like."

"We'll search your body afterward. Two..."

All the other villains surrounding the Brow aimed their weapons like a firing squad (except for Oodles, who had his fat fingers stuffed into his ears and his eyes squeezed shut behind his bangs).

The Brow clenched his teeth tightly as he closed his own eyes.

"Thr–"

_"Hey, Brow!"_ a familiar voice shouted from the direction of the jungle. "You look kinda pale. What's the matter – didja _lose _somethin'?"

Now, make no mistake – there was no one who wanted to see the Brow get shot down like a dog more than Stooge Viller. But something motivated him to speak out at that crucial moment, though it definitely wasn't pity. It was pride. Stooge simply could not bear the thought of the Brow getting killed without ever learning the truth of how he had been bested, and by whom. "Is _this_ what you were lookin' for?" he asked innocently, holding aloft the treasure map like a trump card and smirking from ear to ear. Mumbles stood beside him, carrying his flotsam banjo.

"Viller, thank God," the Brow breathed, momentarily forgetting that he was an atheist. Seconds later, however, he reverted to form. Gesturing wildly, he yelled to the others, "_He's_ the one you ought to shoot, not me! Look, he's got the map! He stole it from me!"

"How could he have stolen it?" B-B Eyes wanted to know. "I saw you take it from him last night with my own eyes, see? And then we double-sapped him, and he didn't wake up until after we marooned them on that sandbar."

Stooge chuckled dryly, basking in his moment of glory. "I told you guys once that I could pick a pocket in my sleep. _Now_ do you believe me?"

"You ... you big faker!" sputtered the Brow, turning crimson with mortified rage. "You were only pretending to be knocked out, weren't you?"

"And you were ze one fooled by 'is act," Sketch Paree pointed out scornfully. "I wanted to simply shoot zem both dead and toss zere bodies overboard, but _oh non_, you 'ad to go and maroon zem."

"If you knew he was shamming, then why didn't you say so, Paree?"

"I did not know it at ze time – but I was not ze one carrying 'im over my shoulder, m'sieur Brow."

"Why, you sanctimonious snake, I outta–"

"ENOUGH!" roared Pruneface, startling everyone into silence. "All this pointless bickering and squabbling isn't finding us the treasure. I suggest a truce is in order. Let's all give each other clean slates, letting bygones be bygones, so we can concentrate on locating Captain Cannonsmoke's treasure, once and for all."

Though ignorant of what was going through each other's minds, both Stooge and the Brow couldn't help thinking _Hypocrite!_ at Pruneface's words. "Does that mean you guys will stop tryin' to do in Mumbles an' me?" Stooge demanded.

"Yes," answered Pruneface, glancing about at everyone else to make certain they understood. They did, although Sketch Paree still cast some very venomous looks at Mumbles, which the latter returned in spades. The blond hood was secretly pleased to see that Sketch had a bandage on his bitten hand.

"It's a deal, then." Stooge nodded as he and Mumbles came forward to rejoin the group.

"Give me back the map, Viller." insisted the Brow. "I'm still today's Captain, after all."

This drew a sneer from Stooge. "Captain, shmaptain! Dry up, Brow – we aren't on the ship anymore. I'm holdin' on to it until we find the treasure, you got that?"

Something began to twitch on the Brow's misshapen forehead as his hands once more balled into fists...

"I said that's _enough!"_ Pruneface reminded them. "Now shake hands, you two, and let's get on with the treasure hunt."

"I'm not shaking hands with him!" both Stooge and the Brow exclaimed in unison.

"At least that's one thing those two can agree on," Flattop snickered to B-B Eyes.

Pruneface pulled the hammer back on his .45. "Shake hands, right now – or I'll blow both of your stubborn heads off, one after the other."

They shook hands. The Brow's palm was clammy with sweat, but Stooge was grateful that at least his own fingers weren't broken in that potentially mangle-like grip.

"That's better," said Pruneface with a ghastly grin of approval. "And now, gentlemen – pick up your shovels. The treasure awaits us!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Following the directions and the landmarks given on the map, the group of gangsters eventually found themselves in a large clearing surrounded by jungle on all sides. "Where do we go from here, Stooge?" asked Itchy, who was alternately scratching himself and swatting at insects.

Consulting the map, Stooge shrugged. "Nowhere – this is the spot marked with a red X. See – there's that tall mound at one end that's indicated here on the map. The X fills the entire clearing, but I didn't expect the clearing to be this big. I guess digging in the middle of it would be a good idea."

At these words, the Mole stepped forward. "Stand back," he announced, rolling up his sleeves. "This is my specialty!" When he reached the very center of the clearing, he hauled off and attacked the ground with his bare hands, sending dirt flying behind him in a brown fountain. The others watched him for a few seconds, but then, as if they had all gotten the same thought at the same time, each began digging their own holes with their respective shovels. After all, the treasure might not have been buried in the _exact_ center of the clearing, and anyway, (they thought) why should the Mole be the first one to see it?

The sun was hot and the shovels were heavy, especially when they were full of dirt. One after another, the criminals took off their jackets and shirts and continued their labors bare-chested. It was exhausting, thirsty work, and none of them had been foresightful enough to bring any containers of water from the ship. But nobody was willing to go back for some, what with the treasure possibly so close now...

Then the Mole – whose excavation was deeper than anybody else's – suddenly shouted out, "I've found something!"

* * *

_The mystery (or at least a good portion of it) will be revealed in the next installment!_


	26. You Can't Cheat an Honest Man

**PART TWENTY-SIX: You Can't Cheat an Honest Man**

Immediately, the other nine villains threw down their shovels and crowded around the Mole's hole, clamoring "What is it?" "What have you found?" "Is it a treasure chest?"

"It isn't a chest," the Mole called back. But before anyone had a chance to express disappointment, he added, "It feels more like a crate. Wow, this thing is huge! I'm gonna need some help gettin' it out of here."

Then there was more toil as they strove to make the hole bigger and wider. Soon they were all inside of it, shoveling frantically as they slowly unearthed what was indeed a large wooden crate, about the size of two refrigerators put together, side by side. And as they struggled to lift it out of the hole, they found it to be even heavier than two refrigerators would have been. Still, with all ten of them working together, they finally managed to raise the thing to the surface and onto solid ground.

There was a stout padlock on one side of the crate, holding the lid tightly shut. Several smashes with several shovels later, the padlock broke off and fell to the ground. Another shovel was used to pry the lid open. And then–

"Oh, my..." whispered Flattop, his half-lidded eyes suddenly opening very wide indeed.

The midday sun reflected almost blindingly off of a hoard of gold and gemstones that even King Solomon would have been impressed by. There were literally hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of golden doubloons exactly like the ones the criminals had found in envelopes addressed to them way, way back before their journey had begun. In addition to this, there were also pearl necklaces, jeweled bracelets, rings, tiaras and chalices of gold and silver encrusted with precious stones. And so much more...

"We're ... rich. _We're rich!"_ whooped Stooge Viller, plunging his arms into the heap of coins up to his elbows. Nobody else took any notice of him, for every one of them was doing the same – the crate was so large that all ten of them could reach into it at once. Soon they were all laughing and cheering and adorning themselves with various pieces of jewelry and "toasting" each other with the empty golden goblets like a group of drunken lords. Only this time they were drunk not with alcohol, but with their own avarice.

It was the long and sensitive nose of Sketch Paree that noticed the strange and rather noxious smell of tobacco first. _"Faugh,"_ he grimaced. "Which one of you is smoking zat 'orrible cigar? Can you not save it for later?"

The others all looked at him in puzzlement. "What are you talking about, Paree?" asked B-B Eyes, who was fond of cigars himself, but was not currently smoking one. "None of us are smoking right now, see...?" He paused, sniffing the air. "Nyahh, but you're right – it _does_ smell like a really bad stogie. Where the heck is it coming from?"

"Why, right up here, gentl'men," a new voice with a thick Southern accent spoke at their backs.

Startled, they all turned around and looked up to see a figure standing atop the tall mound at the end of the clearing. It appeared to be a rather stocky and well-to-do Texan, judging from his expensive-looking cowboy boots and tall ten-gallon hat perched on his head. Or rather, his hat was perched on where his head probably was, but there was so much smoke surrounding it that it was impossible to see his face. An enormous cigar that was responsible for the tobacco fog could be seen jutting out of the middle of it, and it jiggled up and down as the man spoke. "Well boys, y'all – Ah say, y'all have done a fine job, yes indeed. Ah'll be taking over from here, now..."

"Who are _you?"_ at least a half-dozen of the criminals chorused.

"You don't know me? Surrahs, Ah'm offended," the stranger tsked, briefly removing the cigar from his smoke-obscured face to flick some ash away. "Gunsmoke's the name. Cheater Gunsmoke, to be exact. But y'all can just call me–" He removed his ten-gallon cowboy hat to reveal a pirate captain's cap underneath. "–Captain Cannonsmoke."

"CAPTAIN CANNONSMOKE?!" This time all ten of them exclaimed as one. Even Mumbles's pronunciation was loud and clear.

_"Kee_-rect," Cheater replied. Even though his face was not visible, he sounded like he might have been grinning evilly. "And here are mah two 'cannons' to prove it..." From out of his smoking jacket he produced a pair of Thompson submachine guns.

Instantly, ten pairs of hands reached for the sky. Not only were they all currently unarmed (their weapons being inside the coats and jackets they'd removed while digging), but they also knew that Cheater's "cannons" were quite capable of reducing the lot of them to Swiss cheeseburgers before any of them could get off a shot. "So you were the one who sent us those gold doubloons and the pieces of the treasure map?" Pruneface was bold enough to inquire. "Just where did this treasure come from, anyway?"

"Don't y'all read the newspapers? This here treasure is the one that was stolen from a museum by me and mah gang a couple a' months ago. We buried it on this island where the po-leece couldn't find it. But they nabbed each member of mah gang until Ah was the only one left. So Ah needed a new gang to help dig the treasure back up, once it was safe to do so. And that's where you fellahs came in. Thought you'd never get here."

"But ... but how did _you_ get here ahead of us, and without your ship?" Flattop ventured to ask.

"Oh, that's easy," answered the Texan, "Ah have mah own prahvate helicopter, too. It's parked at the other end of the island."

The Brow's sweaty face was starting to turn vermillion again. "So, you tricked us into digging up the treasure for you, because you were too lazy to dig it up yourself! And dare I ask if you plan on splitting the treasure into eleven equal shares?"

Gunsmoke laughed uproariously at this question, nearly dropping his cigar. As soon as he could speak again, he responded, "No, suh – Ah intends to keep all of the treasure for mahself, and to shoot every last one of you polecats! They don't call me _Cheater_ Gunsmoke for nothin'..." And he took level aim with both of his Tommy guns at the group of terrified thugs.

But before he could squeeze either trigger, the crooked Texan suddenly felt the hard barrel of a revolver poking into his own back. "All right, Gunsmoke," came another new voice that was instantly recognized by everyone. "Drop the hardware and grab a cloud!"

"It ... it can't be..." gasped Stooge.

"But it _is...!"_ Itchy yelped, too shocked to even scratch.

"Itz DIC KTRAZY!" blurted Mumbles. And this time, nobody asked "_What_ did he say?" because for once, they all understood him perfectly.

Realizing that the jig was up, Cheater did what he was told and dropped the two Thompsons, which tumbled down the sides of the dirt mound and were lost in the jungle foliage that surrounded the base of it. He put his hands up, but at the same time he shouted out to the ruffians below: "SCRAM, you varmints! He can't catch all of you if y'all scatter!"

And scatter they did. However, if Cheater was hoping that this diversion would give himself a chance to escape, he had sorely underestimated Tracy. Without removing his .357 from the Texan's back, the ace detective coolly brought his two-way wrist radio up to his face and began speaking into it: "Dick Tracy calling..."

* * *

_FINALLY!! If you're familiar with the television series, you might be able to guess whom Dick Tracy is calling..._


	27. Every Thug For Himself!

**PART TWENTY-SEVEN: Every Thug For Himself!**

Even though one might have thought that the villains would have been willing to give themselves up by this time, old habits die hard. No matter what they may have gone through, once the cops arrive, every crook's instinct is always the same: _avoid capture at all costs!_

Dick Tracy finished speaking into his two-way wrist radio, then set about cuffing Cheater Gunsmoke. The disgruntled Texan made no resistance as his hands were secured behind his back. Although the smoke from his cigar still obscured his face, he now sounded like he was scowling sulkily as he said: "If only those fools had gotten here a day earlier, like they was supposed to, Ah'd have gotten away with it."

"Don't be too certain of that," Tracy replied pleasantly. "Me and the boys had been waiting for that lot to arrive as long as you had. The members of your gang that we interrogated told us about this island, and I had a strong suspicion you would return with a new gang to dig the treasure up. Though I must say it was a bit surprising to see so many familiar faces all together like that."

"Harrumph," growled Cheater. "It'll serve you right if any of those varmints manage to get away while y'all waste your time with me."

"Oh, I doubt that," said the ace detective with a smile. "I have plenty of faith in my deputies..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Brow elected to race back towards the rowboats on the beach as fast as he could go, with Oodles doing his best to keep up with him. As they ran, the shorter but heavier of the two felt compelled to ask: "Hey Brow – (puff-puff) – I just wanna know one thing – (puff-puff) – are we still pals, or what?"

Without breaking stride, the Brow answered back over his shoulder: "What kind of a 'pal' stands idly by while his best buddy is about to get shot?"

"Well – (puff-puff) – gee whiz, Brow – (puff-puff) – what didja expect me tuh do (puff-puff)? Stand in front of yuh and absorb all the bullets?"

"If you had, I would have appreciated it."

"Thanks a _lot,_ Brow..." Oodles sounded genuinely hurt.

"Aw, dry up, you big doofus. Can't you tell when I'm pulling your leg?"

At this comment, the fat felon brightened considerably. "Gee, Brow – (puff-puff) – you had me worried there for awhile..."

They had made it to the beach by this time, and the Brow hurried over to the nearest rowboat. But no sooner did he reach into it to grab an oar, when his arm was grabbed instead by someone hiding within the boat. The Brow gave a single yell of dismay before he was violently flung backwards into Oodles, and the two of them crashed to the sand.

Before they could recover, out of the lifeboat hopped a most peculiar little man. An Oriental, his appearance might not have been considered politically correct by today's standards (not that he would have cared one wit if anyone had told him this). He wore a tall "Mr. Moto"-type hat and a large pair of thick-rimmed spectacles, and he may have been neglecting to see an orthodontist. Nevertheless, he was as brave as he was clever, and the two stunned villains just barely had enough time to exclaim _"Joe Jitsu!"_ before he reached them and began to administer a sound (but polite) trouncing:

"Excuse it, prease," Joe apologized smilingly as he used a double judo toss to send the Brow head over heels on one side, while doing the same thing to Oodles on the other. "So sorry," he added as he sent them smashing in the opposite directions. "_So_ sorry," he said again as he repeated the performance. It made no difference that both criminals outweighed him by hundreds of pounds; Joe Jitsu's own secret martial arts technique sent them flying through the air as though they were beachballs – except that they hit the ground much harder than a beachball would. By the time Joe was finished with them, all the fight had gone out of the Brow, who lay pinned under the equally-beaten Oodles.

After dusting off his hands, Joe spoke into his own two-way wrist radio. "Joe Jitsu carring Dick Tracy. Have apprehended Brow and Oodles by beach near criminal rifeboats. Awaiting next instructions. Over."

"Good work, Joe," came Tracy's voice over the radio. "Keep them secured; the rest of us will join you there as soon as we've rounded up the others. Six-two and even, over and out."

"Yuh know sumpthin', Brow?" Oodles said wearily, too weak to resist as Joe came up from behind to handcuff him.

The Brow, who was still trapped underneath his obese crime partner, snarled, "If you're about to say what I _think_ you're going to say, I'm gonna punch your head!"

Oodles remained silent.

The Brow punched him in the head.

"But I didn't say it!" Oodles protested.

"You were_ going_ to say it! And that counts, because I told you I'd punch your head if you were about to say that!"

"Well, since you've already punched me, I might as well say it now," pouted Oodles. _"Crime just doesn't pay!"_

The Brow promptly punched his partner's head a second time, before Joe Jitsu finally got the cuffs on him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

B-B Eyes and Flattop sprinted through the jungle without a clue as to where they were going, or what they intended to do once they got there. All they could think of was putting as much distance as possible between themselves and their arch-nemesis. Ahead of them, the jungle was gradually turning into a foreboding-looking swamp.

Flattop noticed the change in terrain first. "Hey, B-B Eyes, the ground is getting kind of soft here..." he pointed out.

"Nyahh, just keep running, see?" panted his partner. "This is no time to get fussy over a little mud..."

But "a little mud" soon became a deep bog, and before they realized the danger they were in, both criminals were knee-deep in it. By the time B-B Eyes decided that maybe they should turn back after all, it was too late – they were thigh-deep in the mire, and unable to escape. The more they struggled, the deeper they sank.

"You stupid, marble-eyed idiot!" Flattop raged, grabbing his accomplice by the shoulders and shaking him furiously. "I_ told_ you the ground was too soft! But you wouldn't listen, and now we're stuck in quicksand! Going back to jail would have been better than perishing like this!"

Eyes rolling in terror, B-B Eyes wasn't sure whether he was more frightened of their predicament or of his wrathful associate; an enraged Flattop presented an even uglier sight than he did normally, especially up close. But before B-B could try to defend himself, a rope lasso sailed through the air and landed neatly around the two felons. Startled, they glanced around to see who their rescuer could be.

"Hi, fellahs!" waved a rather paunchy, red-haired policeman who was standing safely on a large outcropping of rock next to the swamp, holding on to the end of the rope. "Better secure that rope under your arms, so's I can pull you outta there."

"Officer Heap O'Callory!" exclaimed Flattop. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Tracy told me to wait by the swamp in case some of you guys tried to make a break through here. Lucky for you that he did, too..." Despite his name and red hair, he did not sound Irish; his gravelly voice was uncannily similar to that of Andy Devine.

Flattop shook his flat head. "No, I meant, where did you _come_ from? We haven't seen you in years – thought you'd retired or died or gotten canned or something."

"Oh, that! Wellll, I _did_ have to take an extended leave of absence a few years back, due to health reasons." He rubbed his chest thoughtfully. "But now that I've fully recovered from the bypass surgery, I've never felt better!" Keeping a tight hold of the rope with one hand, he brought up the other to speak into his wrist radio. "Heap O'Callory calling Dick Tracy. I've just caught those two stick-in-the-muds, Flattop and B-B Eyes..."

* * *

_Five villains caught and six still at large -- but for how long? Will any of them get away? Wait and see..._


	28. Settling the Score

**PART TWENTY-EIGHT: Settling the Score**

Pruneface, who had been observant enough to notice a cave up on a hill on the way to finding the treasure, now headed rapidly back towards where he had remembered seeing it, his frantically-scratching associate right on his heels. "We'll hide up there until it's safe to come out," he said as they began climbing the hill as quickly as possible.

Itchy, as usual, looked uncomfortable. "I dunno, Pruneface – are you sure that cave is empty? What if there's a bear or a ... a tiger inside of it?"

"Nonsense. There are no wild animals of that sort living on an island such as this."

"I hope you're right, Pruneface..."

Inside the cave, all was darkness beyond the immediate opening. The two criminals faced the mouth of the cave and slowly backed further into it, expecting to feel a wall of stone behind them. But Itchy bumped into something that felt vaguely fuzzy, and when he turned around, he saw two eyes that definitely weren't Pruneface's gleaming at him in the dark.

_"Yiii!"_ Itchy yelled in terror, "I was right – there _is_ some sort of wild animal in here!" He turned to bolt from the cave, crashed into and got tangled up with Pruneface, which resulted in them both tumbling down the side of the hill together. Meanwhile, the "creature" within the cave that had frightened Itchy so badly strode out into the open and began descending the hill down towards where the two bruised and disheveled crooks lay.

"By Jove!" he spoke in an indignant British cockney accent. "Just because I'm not exactly 'uman doesn't make me a bloomin' wild animal. I'll wager I'm more civilized than either of you blokes." Producing two pairs of handcuffs out from under his London bobby-type hat, he proceeded to slap the bracelets on the two dazed ruffians. Then, beaming proudly all over his wide bulldog mouth, he addressed his wrist radio: "Hemlock Holmes calling Dick Tracy..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Stooge Viller's quick mind had already formed a plan as he and Mumbles sped away from the clearing. "That Cheater Gunsmoke dude said he arrived here in a helicopter, right? If we can find it before anyone else, maybe we can use it to fly back to the mainland, and then we'll be home free!" Remembering that Cheater had also said that he had parked his copter on the other side of the island, Stooge led the way in the direction opposite from where he knew the _Dutch Master_ was anchored.

The island was only about half a mile wide, and before long Stooge caught a glimpse of beach through the thinning trees, along with something else. "Hey, I think maybe – yes! That must be Gunsmoke's chopper! I know how to pilot one of those things. We're gonna make it, Mumbles! We're gonna–"

He stopped short, suddenly realizing after a backwards glance that he had been talking to himself. "Mumbles...?" Stooge called, but his crime buddy was nowhere in sight. "Blast it, Mumbles – _where are you?!"_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sketch Paree was also alone, but unlike Stooge, he neither knew nor cared where his own partner in crime was. To him, the Mole was nothing more than a lackey, at best a useful tool, at worst a bumbling idiot. The Parisian was concerned only with his own selfish interests, and right now, his main interest was escaping the island to plot revenge another day.

Of all the villains who had fled from the clearing, only Paree had the presence of mind to snatch up his jacket – and gun – before fleeing. Armed and very dangerous, he also had hit upon the idea of trying to locate Cheater Gunsmoke's helicopter. But having stopped long enough to put his jacket back on and check to make sure his _Le Français_ pistol was loaded had resulted in Stooge Viller finding the copter first. Observing this from where he was hiding in some tropical foliage near the beach, Sketch uttered a few French curse words, but then he grinned like the Devil himself when he saw that Stooge was coming back to look for Mumbles.

"Ze truce is over, m'sieur Stooge Viller," Sketch hissed as he drew a bead on the latter's head, and then–

*** BAM! * CRUNCH! ***

A crudely-crafted musical instrument resembling a banjo made out of driftwood, seaweed and half a coconut husk was swung like a club and smashed to bits over Sketch Paree's head. Instantly the Parisian crumbled to the sand, still clutching his pistol, which had not gone off. Mumbles stepped out of the bushes behind him, looking smugly triumphant. "Tooshay yersel..." he sneered.

Draw by the commotion, Stooge came running up. "There you are!" he exclaimed angrily. "What's the big idea wanderin' off like that? Another minute and I'd have left you behind! It would've served you ri–"

His voice caught in his throat as he suddenly looked down and saw the unconscious form of Paree with his gun, surrounded by fragments of coconut shell, splintered driftwood and other flotsam. Mumbles, smirking lopsidedly with his arms folded, did not even offer a mumbled word of explanation. He didn't need to.

"Well ... I guess you _did_ manage to play a tune on that thing after all" said Stooge, who felt a little bit choked up all of a sudden. "A real sweet one, right on old Paree's head." Then, remembering that they were still on the run from the law, he composed himself. "Come on, buddy – let's get over to that copter, and get the heck outta Dodge..."

They had not taken more than a dozen strides, however, when something resembling an animated dust cloud zipped out of the jungle and onto the beach, kicking up sand as it ran rapidly around the two scoundrels, trailing a long length of vine. "Hey, what the–?!" Stooge exclaimed as the sand got in his eyes and he and Mumbles became tangled in the vine. By the time his vision cleared and the dust had settled, the two of them were securely tied up, back to back. "Who did this??"

"Just me," replied their captor, a short little non-PC (and lovin' it!) Mexican, complete with a large sombrero, handlebar mustache and a big smile. "Manuel Tijuana Guadalajara Tampico Gomez – Junior ... I theenk."

"GoGo Gomez!" Stooge groaned.

"Sí, some call me that, too." said GoGo, rubbing the end of his mustache.

Mumbles could think of a few more names to call him, and promptly did so.

_"What_ deed he say, Señor?"

"Believe me," Stooge muttered, "ya don't wanna know..."

At that moment, GoGo's wrist radio began buzzing for attention. "Dick Tracy calling GoGo Gomez ... Calling GoGo Gomez ... Come in, GoGo..."

"Go ahead, Ricardo Tracy..."

"Have you located Mumbles and Stooge Viller yet?"

"Sí, Señor Tracy – I've got them all tied up een knots. I've also captured Sketch Paree – he was taking a siesta nearby."

"Great job, GoGo. That leaves only the Mole unaccounted for..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After signing off, Dick Tracy heard a rattling noise coming from the crate full of stolen treasure. A few gold coins clattered down the hoard, even though nothing appeared to have disturbed it. The ace detective approached the crate for a closer look, an eyebrow climbing into his hair. That was when he noticed one of the goblets wobbling slightly by itself. Instantly, he drew his police revolver with one hand, thrusting the other one deep into the mound of treasure. There was a muffled yelp, and then Tracy withdrew his arm, hauling out the shamefaced Mole by his shirt collar. "Why, hello there, Mole. Doing some undercover work?" he quipped.

"Awww ... nuts!" was the Mole's only comment.

* * *

_Almost done -- just a couple more installments to tie off some loose ends..._


	29. A Cheater Never Prospers

**PART TWENTY-NINE: Cheaters Never Prosper**

A short time later, lawmen and lawbreakers alike were all gathered together on the beach near the lifeboats from the _Dutch Master. _Every criminal had been secured, either with handcuffs, rope or vines. Not surprisingly, they were a very subdued bunch, all extremely disappointed to have gone through so much trouble and found such a vast fortune, only to have it snatched from their grasp at the last moment. Still, there wasn't a rogue among the original ten who did not feel at least a slight twinge of relief that their grueling adventure was nearly at an end.

Cheater Gunsmoke, however, felt no such relief – only resentment that his carefully-planned scheme had fallen apart. As usual, his features were unreadable, hidden as they were by the smoke from his perpetual cigar. Said smoke did seem to be a bit darker than usual, as though reflecting Cheater's mood.

Flattop and B-B Eyes were dripping with mud from their chests down, after Heap O'Callory had pulled them both from the quicksand bog. If the two felons felt any gratitude to the stocky officer for having saved their miserable lives, they certainly did not show it. Both of them maintained a sulky silence, thinking only of how they were going to escape from prison this time…

The Brow, defiant as always, tried once again to bluff his way out of the situation. "You haven't got anything on us, copper. We're being framed. We didn't steal that treasure – only this Cheater Gunsmoke jerk did. The rest of us are innocent."

Somehow, Dick Tracy managed to keep from laughing in the Brow's face. "The part about your not stealing the treasure may be true," he replied, "but you and the others are hardly innocent in my book. Shall I read off the list of open warrants that are out for you alone?" He produced a small black book from his jacket and began flipping through its pages. "Here's one involving you and Oodles, concerning a holdup at Little Toni's 24-hour deli–"

"Skip it, flatfoot," muttered the Brow, knowing that he was beaten at last.

"Nice try, Brow," Stooge Viller could not resist sniping, which promptly earned him a snarled "Shaddap!" in return.

Itchy, with his hands cuffed behind his back, squirmed and writhed where he sat on the sand. "Pruneface … help," he cried wretchedly. "I can't … scratch myself. What'll I … do?"

"Change your name to Twitchy!" snorted his unsympathetic associate.

"I can't…" the bespectacled thug groaned. "That's my … brother's name … Oh, I can't stand it … if I don't scratch my head soon, I'll … I'll go crazy!"

Hearing this, GoGo Gomez stepped forward. "Pardon me, Señor Eechy, but I theenk I can help you with your problem."

"You can?" asked Itchy, surprise and a glimmer of hope registering behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Sí," said GoGo, placing one hand on his sombrero. "Say hello to my leetle friend…"

"W-what–? YAAAHHHH!" Itchy screamed as he suddenly realized that GoGo was pointing his long-barreled Mexican _pistola_ at him. "Don't shoot!"

"Eh?" GoGo seemed puzzled by Itchy's behavior, until he realized the latter's mistake. "Oh, ho-ho, a thousand pardons, Señor. I deed not mean _that_ leetle friend. I meant _thees_ one." He tipped his sombrero, and out peeked a pigeon. "Hey, Pancho – the hombre weeth the glasses needs your asseestance. Go to eet, amigo."

Obligingly, the pigeon flew out of GoGo's sombrero and landed on Itchy's head, where it commenced to scrabble at the criminal's scalp with its tiny claws. Itchy flinched at first, but after a few seconds he began to relax. "Ahh ... that's better ... a little more to the left ... higher ... that's it ... nice birdie ... can you do my shoulders next? ... Ow – hey, no pecking!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once all the lifeboats had returned to the _Dutch Master_, the once and future jailbirds were all placed in the ship's hold, which had been converted into a makeshift brig. Joe Jitsu, Heap O'Callory, Hemlock Holmes and GoGo Gomez were put in charge of guarding the criminals and sailing the _Dutch Master_ back to their home port. After a thorough examination of the ship's navigational computer, Dick Tracy was able to determine the proper coordinates that would guide them home, and reprogrammed the computer accordingly.

He himself would not be accompanying them, however. Somebody needed to return the stolen treasure to the museum, and the ace detective had already attached the reclosed crate to Cheater Gunsmoke's helicopter by means of a strong cable. Tracy had also radioed his assistant, Sam, who was in the police boat which had brought all the law-enforcement officers to the island in the first place. The crate would thus be transported via helicopter to the police boat (since this was safer than flying the heavy crate the entire way to the museum), after which the detective would then use the copter to fly himself back to the mainland.

As the chopper climbed into the air with its precious cargo, Dick Tracy's quartet of peculiar deputies all waved farewell.

"Sayonara!"

"'Bye, Tracy!"

"Cheerio!"

"Adios, amigo!"

"Take care, you four," the ace detective called back. "Keep an eye on those rascals in the hold. Don't forget to radio me if you run into any trouble. I'll see all of you when I get back from the museum."

* * *

_All done? No, not quite. Final chapter is next._


	30. The Last Laugh

**PART THIRTY (Conclusion): The Last Laugh**

For a good hour after the _Dutch Master_ began her journey homeward, a stony, sullen silence prevailed down in the hold with its eleven disgruntled prisoners. Heap O'Callory had taken up first watch outside the opening to the hold, which could only be accessed by a ladder that was currently pulled up. Some of the criminals were dozing against the wall, while others simply sat and stared straight ahead, grinding their teeth whenever they thought about their wasted time and effort – and the fabulous treasure that had slipped through their fingers.

Stooge Viller scanned the hold, alert for any means of escape. Unfortunately, there was none to be found, and with their hands secured behind their backs, none of the villains were likely to devise one. Mumbles had already given up and was catching forty winks in one corner. Stooge was just about to join him when a familiar voice spoke softly at his back: "M'sieur Viller..."

Wincing, Stooge whipped around and glared defiantly at the Parisian who had repeatedly tried to murder him and his friend. "It's over, Paree," he snapped. "Give it a rest, already!"

But Sketch Paree shook his head. _"Non, non_ you misunderstand me, _mon ami._ I just want to know if you and ze others would care to join me in ze game of football – or what I believe you Americans call 'soccer.'"

Stooge blinked at Sketch, wondering if the Frenchman had gone insane. "Have you finally flipped your champagne cork, Paree?"

And indeed, there was a certain maniacal gleam in the Parisian's eye as he replied, "Allow me to demonstrate, m'sieur..." So saying, he spun about and kicked the unsuspecting Cheater Gunsmoke in the backside, sending him tumbling across the room while several other crooks scuttled out of his way. "Goal!" exclaimed Sketch as the stocky Texan crashed against the wall of the hold with a heavy _klonk._

For the first time since his capture, Stooge grinned broadly. "Yeah, Paree – I think I _will_ join you in this game! Hey Mumbles, wake up!" He nudged his snoozing crime buddy with his shoe. "You're not gonna want to miss this..."

Moments later, the hapless Gunsmoke was being booted up and down and across the hold by all ten of the others, who were only too eager to take out their frustrations on the one who had gotten them involved with the whole mess in the first place. "Ow – I say, OW!" hollered Cheater with every shoe that found its mark. "Fellahs, please – OW! This isn't – OOF! – gentl'manly!"

"So who's a gentleman?" jeered Flattop as he landed a particularly vicious kick in Cheater's ample stomach.

Up above the hold, Officer Heap O'Callory had been dozing off at his post, but the uproar going on below soon awakened him. "Hey, what's happening down there?" he cried, peeking through the opening in the ceiling. "Well, I'll be..." For a moment or two, he simply watched the game of Gangster Soccer being played below him. He himself had very little sympathy for Cheater Gunsmoke, and could hardly blame the other scoundrels for wanting to kick the tar out of him. Thus, the portly policeman made no attempt to stop the bedlam going on in the hold, but instead pulled out his billy club and began speaking into it as though it were a microphone:

"It's the Battle Royale of the century, folks, with the Treacherous Texan vs the Big House Ten! The tag-team of Mumbles and Stooge Viller are busy kicking Cheater Gunsmoke back and forth between them ... but whoops, it looks like the Brow has just intercepted the ball – er, the bad guy – and has punted him towards the wall. Ooh, what an impact! _That's_ gonna leave a mark ... Now Cheater has scrambled to his feet and is trying to get away ... but he runs smack into Oodles's middle and is bounced backward twelve feet! I couldn't have done that better myself! ... Gunsmoke's reeling body sends the hoodlums scattering left and right ... but they quickly regroup and commence to dogpile on the tobacco-loving Texan! There's smoke all over the ring – I mean, the hold – just what kind of cigars does Cheater smoke, anyway? They never seem to go out!"

At that moment, O'Callory's wrist radio received an incoming call:

"Dick Tracy calling Heap O'Callory ... calling Heap O'Callory ... come in, Heap..."

"Hi, Tracy!" the red-haired officer responded, a bit louder than usual to make himself heard above the din coming from the hold.

"What's going on there, Heap? It sounds like a riot!"

"Oh, it's a riot, all right," O'Callory said with a laugh. "I only wish I had some popcorn right now..."

_"What?!"_

"Don't worry, Tracy – everything's under control. The prisoners are just settling a few scores amongst themselves, that's all. They're still down in the hold."

"Well, as long as they remain secured there, that's fine. I've just left the museum, and the stolen treasure has been returned to its rightful place. That about wraps up the Case of 'Captain Cannonsmoke's' Treasure. All that remains is to get those jailbirds back to their cages where they belong. I'll be waiting for you with a paddy wagon at the docks when you return. Six-two and even, over and out."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later, all was quiet once more in the hold of the _Dutch Master_, save for the sound of various raspy and rumbling snores. The earlier brawl had lasted until, one by one, the villains had all dropped from sheer exhaustion. Although they had joined forces against Cheater Gunsmoke, every one of them had been battered and banged-up in the scuffle, though Cheater of course sported the most bruises. Even the smoke that still inexplicably hid the Texan's face seemed to have turned black and blue.

On the topside deck, all four of the deputies had gathered and were peering down into the hold at the sleeping criminals. "They look so peaceful when they're taking their siestas, don't they, amigos?" remarked GoGo Gomez.

"Righto," Hemlock Holmes agreed. "They seem almost 'uman, they do..."

Heap O'Callory clicked his tongue. "*Tch* I wonder if any of 'em will ever reform, and give up their lives of crime?"

"Ancient Japanese proverb say: 'Once a crook, always a crook,'" Joe Jitsu put in sagely. But his expression became thoughtful as he gazed at each gangster in turn, and for some reason he stared the longest at the Mole (who was currently being used as a pillow by Sketch Paree). "However..." he added, "...another old Japanese proverb say: 'Even an earthworm someday may turn...'"

"Wouldn't that be something," said Heap, "if they _all_ decided to turn over a new leaf?"

"We'd best better 'ope that they don't," replied Hemlock.

"What?! Why ever not?"

"Because," the police dog answered with a grin, "if they did, we'd all lose our blinkin' jobs, we would!"

It was a joke, of course – and the four of them chuckled heartily as the _Dutch Master_ continued to sail off into the sunset, headed for home. The sun seemed to blush red with relief as it slipped below the horizon, while the moon rising in the east, now grown from a smiling crescent to a laughing hemisphere, beamed brightly as if to say: _"Told you so!"_

**F I N**

* * *

_Thanks to those who took the time to read this story, those who stuck with it right up to the very end, and especially to Jen Rock and "Dick Tracy" for their kind comments. It was a lot of fun writing this, and rather interesting to see the number of hits on my traffic page from fans of Dick Tracy all over the world._

_"The Treasure of Captain Cannonsmoke" is dedicated to the memory of Chester Gould; may he forgive me for the liberties I've taken with his characters._ _Oh, and to the memory of Henry Saperstein, too. UPA forever!_

_Six-two and even, over and out._


	31. Afterword and Acknowledgements

The Treasure of Captain Cannonsmoke

Afterword and Acknowledgements

[Note: the following contains "spoilers" concerning the fate of certain classic villains in the Dick Tracy comic strip.]

"The Treasure of Captain Cannonsmoke" was inspired by (and utilized) a number of elements both from the Dick Tracy newspaper strip and the UPA animated series from 1961. Though they shared the same names, the two mediums presented the characters in two very diverse ways. The team-ups of the villains, for example, never happened in the comic strip - each criminal instead had his own unique story. Many did not survive their first and only appearances in the strip.

As any longtime fan knows, _Dick Tracy _was once an incredibly popular newspaper strip, and I would like to bring to a new reader's attention just a few of the things that made Chester Gould's creation so popular, once upon a time. This is also an opportunity for me to show how the main characters in "The Treasure of Captain Cannonsmoke" originally appeared in the comic strip, long before any animated series existed.

Possibly the most famous Dick Tracy villain of all, Flattop Jones was a killer for hire. The mob recruited him to assassinate Dick Tracy, offering him $5,000 to do so (bearing in mind that this was back in the 40's). Flattop would have succeeded, but his own greed sabotaged him - after kidnapping Tracy, he contacted the mob and told them the price of the "hit" had been bumped up to $50,000, and he refused to finish the job unless he was paid in advance. This delay gave Tracy the time he needed to strike back. One thing led to another, and Flattop ended up drowning under a pier. His legacy continued for many years through his extensive family, notably with his lookalike son, Flattop Jr. - who was every bit as cold-blooded as his father.

B-B Eyes was a regular gangster whose forte was tire-bootlegging. At the time of his story this was a serious offense, since World War II was in full swing and rubber was a valuable commodity needed for the war effort. The unpatriotic B-B came to a sticky end after being arrested and handcuffed; he tried to make a break by jumping off of a dock and into a passing barge. Bad move - the barge was filled with refuse and sludge, and B-B Eyes may have suffocated before he even had a chance to drown when the barge dumped its load in the ocean. It was later revealed that B-B had a wife who was as crooked as he was, and an equally-villainous brother named B.D. Eyes.

Pruneface (originally spelled Prune Face) rivals Flattop in being the most well-known Dick Tracy villain (which is one of the reasons why I had them disliking each other in my fanfic). Another relic from WWII, he was a top Nazi agent. Pruneface ended up freezing to death at the end of his initial story. Many years later, however, in a story written by Max Allan Collins and drawn by Dick Locher, he was thawed out and resurrected by a Nazi scientist who was a cryogenics expert. (One hilarious scene had the newly-revived Pruneface looking at a picture of Ronald Reagan – the U.S. President at the time of the story - and saying, "Why, that isn't Ronald Reagan, that's my brother Louie!") After getting his revenge on Dick Tracy by trapping him in the freezing chamber and leaving him to die (the detective was later resuscitated, of course), Pruneface tried to escape on a chartered plane. However, his past war crimes finally caught up with him, and he was taken into custody - not by Tracy, but by a European secret agent. He spent a long time in prison and finally died - this time for good. There was also a Mrs. Pruneface (who was even more ghastly to behold than her hideous husband), but she met her end before Pruneface was unfrozen, after nearly doing Dick Tracy in with a particularly fiendish death-trap that he barely escaped from.

Itchy Oliver, who was relegated to the role of Pruneface's flunky and comic relief in the cartoon series, was actually a ruthless monster in the comic strip. He may have murdered more innocent people than any of the other villains named here - once he even arbitrarily killed a harmless cow! Teamed up with B-B Eyes' vengeful widow, he captured Dick Tracy and attempted to starve him to death, wanting the detective to suffer as much as possible before the end. When an emaciated Tracy managed to get the drop on him, Itchy tried to pull his gun but was cut down in a hail of bullets before he could do so. A rash character indeed, in every sense of the word. And yes, he really did have a brother named Twitchy, snipped from the same bolt of nasty cloth. I decided to go with the funnier animated version of Itchy for the fanfic, mainly because there were already enough "heavies" in the story, most notably the following...

The Brow is clearly another one of the most recognizable of Dick Tracy's foes. Like Pruneface, he was a Nazi spy - one who was not above using torture to force people to do his bidding. He was also a blackmailer and a murderer. Yet, even in the midst of all these serious doings, one of the strips funniest moments occurred when the injured Brow was found by lonely widow Gravel Gertie, who was immediately smitten with his appearance (the poor old woman had obviously been living alone for too long). She nursed him back to health, and the Brow, with his eyes bandaged, thought that she must be some beautiful angel of mercy. But when the bandage eventually came off and he finally got a good look at her, he ran away screaming! The Brow also lays claim to what is quite possibly the most spectacular death of any Dick Tracy villain. During a fistfight with Tracy on the top floor of a tall building, the Brow crashes through a window and plummets to the ground, ending up impaled on a flagpole with a bronze American eagle molded at the tip. They had to remove the flagpole with a derrick in order to collect the Brow's body. It was later revealed that the Brow had a son who developed a crush on Angeltop, the daughter of Flattop, but Brow Jr. was never quite as brutal or bloodthirsty as his infamous father.

A relative "latecomer" to the Rogues Gallery (he didn't appear until the mid 50's, while all of the other classic villains made their debuts in the 30's and 40's), Oodles was another hired hitman and an extortionist, who would charge his clients $1,000 per month indefinitely after making the kill for them. He really did weigh upwards of 467 pounds, and although he seemed concerned with reducing (he would take frequent steam baths and carried a "Calorie Counter" book with him), he just couldn't stop eating. While one might have expected that Oodles would have eventually dropped dead from congestive heart failure, he was killed in a shootout before this could occur. Unlike most of the other villains, he had no known relatives, wife or offspring. Paired up with the Brow in the animated series, the two of them made a sort of crooked Abbot & Costello-type team.

Another loner in the strip was Sketch Paree, an artist and clothes designer gone horribly wrong. In the comic strip, Sketch wasn't just evil - he was completely insane. He kept a toy doll he called "Baybee" with him, and talked to it as though it were alive. He murdered those whom he felt had wronged him (often being mistaken in his assumptions), and designed a frightful means of doing so: he would don a sponge mask soaked with water and grab his victims in a deadly embrace, crushing their faces into the mask until they drowned. He met his end in a manner similar to Itchy and Oodles - just as he was attempting to claim yet another victim, who fortunately was saved in the nick of time. In the cartoon show, Sketch wasn't crazy, but he was definitely one of the more sinister villains. (I always thought that the design of the Dracula character in the "Groovy Goolies" show from the 70's was based on the way the animated Paree looked - white face, pointed nose and chin, blood-red bow tie and all.) And he did use hypnotism to commit crimes in more than one episode of the animated series. It was the Mole who was the comedy relief of this particular team...

In the newspaper strip, the Mole was something of an anomaly. First, he was never killed, not even "temporarily." Second, he ended up becoming that very rare breed of Dick Tracy character: the Reformed Villain! One would not have guessed it from his initial comic strip story, where he was introduced as a greedy, cretinous miser, dwelling underground and offering shelter to other criminals - for a fee, of course. Although he carried a gun, his most fearsome weapons were his strong, hairy hands, though the only ones he succeeded in murdering with them were the other criminals who thought that they could double-cross him. He did attempt to strangle Dick Tracy at one point, but he was no match for the ace detective in hand-to-hand combat. Amazingly, after the Mole was arrested and put in jail, Tracy not only forgave him, but even went so far as to give him a care-package on Christmas Day. The Mole was so touched by this random act of kindness that he was moved to tears. 19 years later he was released from prison, an older and wiser Mole, and he tried to keep his granddaughter Molene from following the same road to crime. Unfortunately, he was not successful, and Molene was killed when a caper went wrong. Again, the sensitive Mole was shown crying. When last seen in the strip, the Mole - now a white-haired old man - had taken up farming, working in the soil with his hands "like any good mole!"

Now we come to the two characters who were (for the most part) the main focus of my fanfic. As such, I'm going to go into a little more depth with their comic strip biographies, mainly because they both happen to be my favorite Dick Tracy villains...

Chronologically, Stooge Viller was the oldest of the criminals included in this fanfic. He made his debut in 1933, and resembled a typical gangster of that era. (I find it interesting that while Stooge bore a strong physical resemblance to Edward G. Robinson, the creators of the animated cartoon resisted the temptation to make him sound like the latter, giving that type of voice to B-B Eyes instead.) Stooge lived up to his title of "King of Pickpockets" when he succeeded in planting counterfeit money in Dick Tracy's wallet and jacket, all without the detective ever noticing what was going on until it was too late. This nearly ruined him - Tracy lost his job and the trust of his girlfriend, Tess Trueheart. Stooge would have won if he just hadn't decided to push his luck by courting Tess - he even went so far as proposing to her! But Tess finally found out what Stooge had done and tried to notify the police, and the con man promptly shot her (non-fatally, fortunately). By the time Tracy caught up with Stooge, the ace detective wasn't about to waste a bullet on him - he wanted to extract retribution with his fists! After receiving the beating of his life, Stooge was sent to prison.

But his story was far from over. Joining forces with fellow inmate Steve the Tramp, Stooge staged a cunning jailbreak and soon the two of them were wreaking havoc all over the countryside. The pair didn't really get along well though, and inevitably there was a parting of the ways after they returned to the city. Driven by a thirst for revenge against Tracy, Stooge intended to kidnap Junior, Tracy's adopted son who had recently been reunited with his real father. But Junior's blind father lashed out with his cane when Stooge tried to take the boy away at gunpoint. The gun went off accidentally, killing Junior's father and making a murderer out of Stooge. (He later told Maxine, his equally-crooked sister, "I didn't mean to plug the old man!") After a few more misadventures, he was apprehended by Tracy and sent back to prison, where the first thing he did was get into a fistfight with his old partner, Steve the Tramp.

This time he served his full sentence - a mere six years (I guess the murder charge was ruled out as an accident after all) - and when he was released from prison, he still had revenge on his mind. And he very nearly succeeded this time, too - trapping Dick Tracy in an old well out in the middle of a deserted area and leaving him there to perish. Tracy managed to escape from the well after a couple of days, but he was so weak and exhausted from his ordeal that he collapsed in a ravine before he could find help. A young girl scout found him there and summoned aid for him. The story made front-page news in the local paper, and Stooge was thunderstruck to discover that the girl scout's name was Binnie Viller - his own daughter! Suddenly, revenge no longer became the driving force in Stooge's life; he wanted to see his daughter, to finally be a parent to her and to be loved back. But she rejected him completely, knowing all about Stooge's sordid past, and had nothing but fear and hatred for her criminal father. In misguided desperation, he kidnapped her - perhaps not the best way to prove that he intended to mend his ways.

Dick Tracy soon tracked them both down, and once again the two of them battled each other barehandedly - only this time Stooge gave back as good as he got, fueled as he was by the thought of having his daughter taken away from him forever. During the scuffle, Binnie picked up Stooge's gun and threatened to shoot her own father. That was when Stooge made his final, fatal mistake: he tried to kick the gun out of her hand. As before with Junior's blind father, the gun went off accidentally, only this time it was Stooge who was shot. Mortally wounded, he staggered towards the river in his second suicide attempt, though probably all he wanted to do at this point was simply hurry things along ... Dick Tracy snatched him back from a watery grave, but the damage was done and not even a doctor could save him now. From his hospital bed, Stooge reconciled with his tearful daughter, and he even made peace with the detective who had been his arch-enemy for so long; his dying wish being that Tracy would look after Binnie after he was gone. "You're okay, flatfoot," he said softly as they shook hands for the first and last time. Thus did Stooge Viller find redemption in the final moments of his life.

A number of years after the passing of Stooge, Mumbles made his first appearance in the newspaper strip, along with a small gang of three other singing hoods that all together formed the "Mumbles Quartette." Their racket was playing concerts at rich society functions and stealing everything they could lay their hands on in the process. Mumbles was engaged at this time to Kiss Andtel, a girl who was prone to weeping and fainting. When she found out her fiancé was a crook, she did more than just cry or pass out - she promptly broke off the engagement. In revenge, Mumbles stole her car and took it for a joyride with his three cronies. When a motorcycle cop pursued them, Mumbles told one of the guys (who was able to understand him) to toss a seat cushion into the motorcycle's path. The order was carried out, the cop crashed and burned, and Mumbles suddenly had a murder rap on his hands (even though he wasn't the one who threw the car seat).

The death of the traffic cop attracted the attention of Dick Tracy, but he could find no evidence to convict Mumbles and his gang. Up to this point, Mumbles had kept the lion's share of the loot taken from the group's various heists, but after the cop-killing, the other three threatened to squeal on him if he didn't dole out the spoils equally. Mumbles pretended to comply, but he was already making plans to get rid of his troublesome cronies. His plan invovled a party on board a chartered yacht and some sticks of dynamite. While the other members of the Mumbles Quartette caroused and sang, their leader lit the fuse and escaped in a rubber life boat. (Sound familiar? It should - this story was really what inspired me to write "The Treasure" in the first place; I had wondered how this scene would have worked if it had been used in the animated series, and the rest of the idea developed from that point on.) Dick Tracy arrived on board, found the dynamite and tossed it out the window before it exploded. Mumbles, meanwhile, was lost at sea and was presumed to have drowned after his rubber raft was punctured by a broken oar handle.

It wasn't until approximately eight years of real time later that Chester Gould finally revealed what had actually happened to Mumbles, in his second story featuring the inarticulate criminal. Apparently, he was rescued at the very last minute when a passing yacht found him. The owner of the yacht, an elderly but robust wealthy health food and exercise freak named George Ozone (his all-too-often repeated catchphrase being "You wouldn't think that I was 84 years old, would you?") earned him the gratitude and servitude of Mumbles. George lived in Jamaica where he had fathered two sons after a dalliance with one of the native women, who later died under unknown circumstances. Too "busy" to raise his kids himself, George put Mumbles to work and made him their tutor (and one could hardly imagine anything more ludicrous than Mumbles as an English tutor!). As a result, the boys (known as Neki and Hokey for their constant utterances of "Neki Hokey!") grew to be wild and undisciplined and talked with the same sloppy speech habits as Mumbles. They loved their "tutor," though, who admittedly became more of a father-figure to them than their real dad. Mumbles himself showed a surprising tolerance for their antics, allowing them to clamber all over him and maul him with their rough displays of affection. The three of them even made music together, using Jamaican-style instruments.

With a steady job and the ability to play and perform whenever he felt like it, Mumbles might have possibly given up his life of crime, had he been allowed to stay in Jamaica. But George Ozone wanted to market his newly-developed health pills in the U.S., and thus he brought Neki, Hokey and Mumbles back there with him. That's when the trouble began anew. The wild boys accidentally set fire to the shack they were living in while Mumbles was away, and ended up in the hands of the police, who took them to a juvenile home. George Ozone (who had a stately seaside mansion that he wouldn't allow his own sons to stay in, for fear that they'd wreck the place) ordered Mumbles to go to the police and get Neki and Hokey back. Mumbles rather understandably declined this request - after all, he was believed to be dead, and with the old cop-murder charge still lurking in his past, he didn't dare go to the police station. George finally went to pick them up himself. Meanwhile, the police were rather nonplussed over the whole business, and Dick Tracy was starting to get suspicious as he listened to Neki and Hokey's strangely familiar mode of speech.

To make the rest of this long story short (which is a shame, since this is my most favorite Dick Tracy story_ ever_), Mumbles dug up a hidden fortune by the sea, strapping the 100+ pound cask of treasure to his back while both the tide and a dense fog were rolling in. By this time Dick Tracy had nearly caught up with Mumbles, and the two of them met in the thickening fog and the rising tide. After a brief, one-sided scuffle, Tracy collared Mumbles and signaled for a helicopter to pick them both up via a cable, since the fog made it impossible for either of them to find their way back to shore. But halfway up to the copter, the leather sling attached to the cable broke under the weight of the two men and the heavy cask. Down they fell, Tracy landing in the water, shaken but unhurt. Mumbles wasn't so lucky. With the cask still strapped to his shoulders, he landed headfirst and drowned in six feet of water, held down by the weight of the cask and unable to free himself from the harness strap.

That was really supposed to be the end of him, and for 20 years Mumbles was not mentioned again. Chester Gould retired from the strip in 1977, and author Max Allan Collins took over writing the plots, while Rick Fletcher did the artwork. Gould was still alive to act as a consultant when Collins came up with a means by which Mumbles could have survived drowning a second time. It seems that Mumbles had studied yoga breathing techniques while he was with George Ozone, and could hold his breath for an unusually long time, simulating death. Attempting to pass himself off as his own "clone" (another long story there), he underwent plastic surgery to make himself look 20 years younger. Dick Tracy wasn't fooled, however, and the third Mumbles story ended with the blond-headed criminal finally being placed behind bars to serve what was presumably a life sentence, mumbling incoherently to himself.

But sometimes you just can't keep a bad man down - or in jail. Mumbles has continued to make appearances in the strip, the most recent being in 2012, still unrepentant and up to no good. Will he _ever_ reform, or be killed off for good? Somehow, I doubt it, on both counts...

And not to forget Cheater Gunsmoke, a villain who was created solely for the UPA cartoon show, appearing in only two of the 130 episodes made for that series. Though Chester Gould did not invent him, there has been some speculation as to whether Cheater was actually supposed to have been an animated caricature of Gould, his true identity forever hidden by a cloud of cigar smoke. Note that they had the same initials, and that "Cheater" and "Chester" are but a single letter apart from each other. Also, Gould was originally from Oklahoma, which is close enough to Texas to make Gunsmoke's accent an appropriate one.

* * *

_And now for a list of people whom I'd like to thank for one reason or another. My grateful thanks to the following:_

_To Mike Curtis, for wanting to serialize this story on Plainclothes before he and Joe Staton took over as writer and artist for the current Dick Tracy strip._

_To my brother Scott, for always encouraging me to write fanfic._

_To BassmanBob, for inspiring me with his own hilarious creative writing._

_Lastly, to my husband Mike, who will probably never read this story because he doesn't like fan fiction; yet he was the one who turned me on to Dick Tracy with his collection of books featuring the classic strip reprints and his own fondness of the animated UPA cartoon series, which I never would have seen (and thus never would have written this fanfic) had it not been for him._

_Sayo_nar_a!_


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